Pagan Death
by Bo Georgeson
Summary: Have you ever wondered what happened to DC Gail Stephens? This story will give you the answer. Otherwise our detectives DCI John Barnaby and DS Ben Jones have ordinary Midsomer-things on their plate such as a church burglar tipped over the edge and turning to murder and so on... And oh, there's also some romance for Ben Jones.
1. Chapter 1

**Introduction**

Have you ever wondered what happened to DC Gail Stephens? She just disappeared between the TV episodes 'Fit for Murder' and 'Death in the Slow Lane'.

Well, here's the answer to that question! We'll tell you what happened to Gail.

This is a story that I've co-written with my dear friend "John Douglas". He has been my editor and has also contributed several sections to the story. You can find John's own fantastic Midsomer Murders short stories here at fanfiction and then /u/1685240/John-Douglas. If you haven't read them, do so now! Your Midsomer life won't be complete if you leave these gems unread.

The characters DCI John Barnaby, DCI Tom Barnaby, Cully Dixon, Dr George Bullard, Desk Sergeant Angel, DS Ben Jones, DC Gail Stephens, DI Aubrey Brierly, CSI Cotton and fire brigade officer Susie Bellingham were all created by Caroline Graham or people associated with the production company of the TV series – Bentley Productions. Dave Errol was created by Michael Russell for the episode 'The Blood Point' that was never filmed. Dave Errol and Agnes Olsen are recurring characters from my previous Midsomer Murders story 'The Blood Line'.

We offer our humble thanks and excuses for using them for our own purposes and sincerely hope that we've delivered them relatively undamaged back to their rightful owners.

All other characters in this story are entirely created by our own imagination.

Do you remember the final scene in 'Fit for Murder'? Tom Barnaby's retirement party is interrupted by a phone call to John Barnaby. The vicar of Badger's Drift has been found hanged. That is where this story takes off.

This story will be published over nine days, beginning today.

We hope you will have an enjoyable read!

**Pagan Death**

**Tuesday**

When DS Ben Jones closed the door to DCI Tom Barnaby's home and went out into the chilly evening air he didn't know what to think. He felt awkwardly empty inside. His boss of the last five years had just announced his retirement and it had come as a complete surprise to Ben. And it was a retirement with immediate effect.

He walked over to his car, where DCI John Barnaby was already in the passenger's seat waiting. He sat down behind the wheel and with a hint of a sigh said: 'Did you know this was coming, sir?'

John Barnaby turned his big face towards Ben and replied: 'Of course I did.'

'Well, it sure came as a complete surprise to me.'

Their conversation was interrupted by DC Gail Stephens who approached the car and tapped respectfully at the side window. 'What should I do, sir?' she asked. 'Will you be needing me too?'

'No, Gail,' Barnaby answered, 'you go home and get a good night's rest and show up bright and early at the station tomorrow. From what we know this is probably a suicide. Hangings usually are.'

Gail murmured a 'Good night, then' and went over to her own car.

As Ben steered out of the driveway and headed towards Badger's Drift, Barnaby took up the conversation again.

'Surely, Jones, it doesn't take that much deduction to figure out that Causton CID isn't big enough for two DCIs?' It was put like a question but was more of a remark.

'No, sir, I guess not. I just didn't see it coming. That's all. The boss just seemed so much a part of the CID that the thought that he might leave had just never occurred to me.'

They drove carefully through the dark streets of Causton in silence. Each had his own thoughts. Ben's were spinning at the new situation. The boat always rocked a bit when someone left the team or a new person joined, but a change of commander was always the biggest change, as he had learnt on the course in group dynamics that he'd been on the previous year.

John Barnaby seemed a nice enough bloke, but so far he'd only met him a few times. It was one thing to meet under those circumstances and quite another to be working colleagues. He wondered what kind of boss he would turn out to be? A fair bit younger than his cousin, the other DCI Barnaby. That could be a good thing. Perhaps he was a bit more open to modern policing?

John broke the silence. 'You realize of course that you will be the senior investigating officer now?'

For a short moment Ben took his eyes of the road and glanced at Barnaby. 'No, sir, I had no idea. Why's that?'

'I'm not officially beginning my duties here in Midsomer until the 1st and that's three weeks from now. I guess Chief Super Cotton had planned to inform you tomorrow. Well, he couldn't really foresee that something like this would happen tonight, could he?'

'So… you mean I'm in charge now?'

'Yes, you are, but I'm sure you won't mind if I assist you a bit in the background on what may come up, will you?'

'No, sir, not at all,' answered Ben and thought to himself _'What a career move it would be to answer your commander-soon-to-be 'no' to that question.'_

'Good', John Barnaby let out a delighted sigh and smiled. It was always a test to stake out the territory with a new team and, as Jones was his closest officer in charge, he would need to be on good terms with him. He was a bright enough lad, Tom had assured him. Eager to learn and ambitious. Perhaps a bit naïve and sometimes a bit hasty to jump to conclusions, but Jones was young and had his future ahead of him. He'd learn.

* * *

Gail drove her car slowly back to her flat near the town centre. She almost took a detour to postpone her arrival. It felt strange. She loved her flat and usually rushed off home to enjoy another evening in the cosy environment she had created. She'd moved in almost two years ago, about the same time she got out of uniform and was transferred to the CID. A period in her life when almost everything had gone well.

Now everything seemed to be going wrong both in her personal life and at work. Promising as the CID had seemed to be, she felt she hadn't really been given the chance to step forward. Or perhaps she just hadn't acted on the chances given? Had Tom Barnaby kept her back because she was a woman? No, she really didn't think so. He was old-fashioned alright, but not unfair. The only times she really enjoyed her work was when there were cases that required a lot of computer work. She loved gathering information on the internet and various databases and she loved it even more when there was tracking of illegal activities in secret networks to be done. That was what she liked and felt comfortable with. In her darkest moments she almost admitted to herself that perhaps she just wasn't cut out to be a detective working in the field? In two years' time she should have learnt to cope with murder victims and other nasty things. As for her personal life it was a complete disaster. She sighed to herself as she parked the car. Now there was no return.

She walked the two stairs up and went in. There on the telephone desk in the hall it lay waiting as it had been doing since she bought it three days ago. She undressed in the bedroom and walked naked out into the hall again and picked up the little parcel. On her way to the bathroom she stopped in front of the full-sized mirror and studied her body. Did it show? No, of course not. She put the stupid thought out of her mind and went into the bathroom, opened the parcel, sat down on the toilet to do her business. She laid the pregnancy test kit facing downwards on the bathtub edge while she washed her hands and waited the prescribed amount of time. With trembling hands she gripped the test and looked at it… There was no doubt. It was positive…

Gail looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and tears began streaming down her cheeks.

* * *

Jones and Barnaby could see the flashing lights of the panda car as they drove closer to the church at Badger's Drift. While parking Barnaby asked Jones: 'Do you know who the vicar is? I mean was?'

'Yes, Dave Errol, a nice enough man, though we had to put his wife away for murder a few years back.'

'Oh,' Barnaby hummed, 'well, that of course can't leave anything but a troubled and unhappy man, I guess. Were you in on the case?'

'Only marginally, sir. I was still in uniform back then and didn't have that much to do with the actual case or the persons involved.'

'I see.' Though not the SIO, Barnaby was still ahead of Jones into the church.

They walked into the large mediaeval building and could at once see a man hanging from one of the lower side beams. They passed the attending PC, a young redheaded bulky man, and approached the body. Ben nodded at the PC and murmured 'Evenin', Chimes' before looking up at the dead man's face.

'Sir!' He almost shouted. 'This isn't the vicar. This isn't Dave Errol.'

'It is not? Then who is it?' Barnaby sounded confused.

Before Jones managed to answer the PC said: 'No, sir, it's the church warden. Apparently by the name of Eric Singer.'

'But then why..?' Barnaby's question wasn't finished before the PC spoke again.

'Apparently it was Mr Errol, the vicar, who found him and from what I understand and have seen of him, he must have been so upset when he made the 999 call, that they got it all mixed up.'

'And where is Mr Errol now?' asked Barnaby.

'He was in no condition at all to make a statement, sir. I couldn't get a word of sense out of him. The dead man was identified by a Mrs Olsen, who came into the church some time after the vicar, about the same time as we arrived. She's taken him home and called for the GP.'

Barnaby frowned, irritated. 'I would've liked a word with him now. Who authorised you to let him go?'

The PC's cheeks reddened as he answered: 'With all due respect, sir, who are you?' and then he turned to Jones and continued: 'And for your information I used my judgement and common sense and thought it better to have a word with him tomorrow, when perhaps he can talk.' He emphasized the last words as he turned to Barnaby again and met his eyes with a stern gaze.

The moment of silence was so tangible in the air between the three of them that Ben thought you could touch it. But before he could come to the PC's rescue, Barnaby seemed to shake off his frustration and stretched out his hand towards the young PC: 'I'm so sorry. You're perfectly right to ask. I'm DCI Barnaby, John Barnaby, that is.' He finished his sentence with a smile at the constable as they shook hands.

'Sir, I didn't know. I'm sorry…'

'No, no, constable Chimes. You did the right thing.'

'_Now that was a change for sure,'_ Ben thought. That would never have happened with the old Barnaby. The PC would have been put in his place without mercy.

'Now, constable, when that's settled, do we have any information about this poor fellow? An address and does he have family?'

'Yes, sir, I managed to have a few words with Mrs Olsen before she took the vicar away. He lives in a house at 34 Woodgrove Road with his wife, Liz. No children to Mrs Olsen's knowledge, at least none living at home.'

'Good,' Barnaby looked up at the hanging man again. 'He certainly doesn't seem to be of an age to have grown-up children, so hopefully, under these circumstances, there are none.'

Noises of people approaching came through the church door. Bullard with an assistant entered and walked up to them.

'Now, what do we have here?' asked Bullard in his characteristic thoughtful way. He looked at the body and the fallen chair beneath it.

'It looks like suicide to me,' said Ben.

'Can't argue with you there, Jones,' said Barnaby, 'but we'll let you get down to your usual procedures, while we have the questionable joy of paying the widow a visit.' Barnaby nodded at George Bullard, who had already begun to examine the body in its hanging position.

'Right, right,' answered Bullard, but from his words it was obvious he was already fully focused on the work before him.

In the car Barnaby turned to Jones. 'You do the talking when we get there, you are after all the officer in charge.'

'_Hah'_, Ben thought, _'so now I'm in charge_. _Wasn't much sign of that back in the church, was there?'_

* * *

Gail couldn't get to sleep, no matter how hard she tried. She thought of taking a brandy to calm her nerves, but realised just before she poured the glass that of course she couldn't drink alcohol.

She looked at the digital figures her alarm clock projected onto the white ceiling for the umpteenth time. 12.45 am. Tomorrow would be a long day if she didn't get to sleep soon.

She wondered what he'd say about it. They didn't know each other that well, but the sex had been fantastic and, since she had no one else in her life, she hadn't seen the harm in having a bit of fun. Would he be happy? Terrified? Demand an abortion?

If only they could have met tonight as planned, but she had got his text even before getting to the Barnaby party, that tonight's late rendezvous was off. Something had come up…

The thoughts danced about in her head and she realised she didn't actually know what she felt about it yet. Was she happy? Terrified? Was she going to have an abortion?

All those questions were of course impossible to answer before she had told him and got his reaction. Or was she even going to tell him before she'd made her own mind up? _'I don't really know him'_, she thought again, when she turned in her bed and closed her eyes to force herself to sleep.

* * *

34 Woodgrove Road was in complete darkness. Not a light in the house was on. As they approached the house Ben could see with help from the bright moonlight that someone in the household loved their garden. There were flowers everywhere in all colours and tastefully put together. The few bushes were neatly trimmed and the gravel path seemed carefully raked.

The house was something unusual, as it was a timbered house. The façade of overlapping timber was beautiful where it was visible beneath the climbing ivy.

On their way into the house they passed a rather shabby Saab. They obviously didn't love their car as much as their garden. On the top of the bonnet lay a magnificent black and white cat of some longhaired variety sleeping. The cat graced the two policemen's presence by opening half an eye and letting out a big yawn before going back to sleep.

They couldn't find a door bell so Ben knocked hard on the front door. Nothing happened. He waited a minute and then he knocked again. Now a light was lit somewhere in the house and its beam reached the floor so that Barnaby could see it from the window he was looking through.

'Someone's awake now,' he whispered to Jones, ' knock again'. Funny, he thought, how we almost always turn to whispering outside in the dark.

A few minutes later the door was opened slightly and from the door chink a female voice asked: 'Yes?'

'Mrs Singer?' Jones asked while holding up his badge, 'I'm DS Jones from the police. Could we please come in for a moment?'

'The police?' Liz Singer's voice sounded sleepy and confused while she opened the door and looked at them in bewilderment as they entered the house. 'What is it about? Has something happened?'

'Perhaps if we could sit down, Mrs Singer, we need to talk to you.' Ben felt great sympathy for this poor woman, who didn't yet know what was to come.

She guided them in to a very warm and welcoming sitting room, clearly inspired by the American or Canadian wood-producing states, but all done in very good taste. Barnaby and Jones were invited to sit on a large comfortable leather sofa, while Liz Singer sat down in the matching armchair and introductions were made.

During the few moments before Jones spoke the inevitable words "Mrs Singer, I'm so sorry to have to inform you that your husband has been found dead", John studied Liz Singer. He judged her age to be somewhere around 35, although she looked older or rather as if life had been rough with her. She had distinct wrinkles on her face. She was tall for a woman and of medium build. Right now she of course looked as if she had come straight out of bed, which was in fact what she had done, but she had a sort general tiredness about her. Her hair was short and dark, with a fair amount of grey in it. Her eyes made an intelligent impression and her manners and voice spoke of good breeding. John thought she must have been rather pretty in her teens, but that she had been one of those flowers that faded fast. Once Jones had uttered the shocking message her face twisted into a grimace of horror and disbelief.

'Bu-bu-but how? Where? I don't believe it! I-I-I want to see him now. You've made a mistake. It can't be my Eric.' The words flooded out of her together with ever-increasing sobs.

'Look, Mrs Singer, I'll make a cup of tea,' said Jones and began to rise for the kitchen.

Barnaby put a hand on his arm and held him back. Instead he went into the kitchen. Jones spoke gently and comfortingly to Liz Singer and gave her the details as far as they were known.

When Barnaby set the tea in front of them she took several large gulps between the sobs and seemed to calm down a little.

Finally she spoke again: 'So you're saying Eric committed suicide?'

'It would appear so, Mrs Singer. Again I am so sorry.' Jones really felt for her.

'I don't believe you, sergeant! It's impossible! Eric was as happy as ever and hasn't had a bad day in his entire life. No, I do not believe you!' Her tone was now almost aggressive.

'Of course we'll look into the circumstances, but at the moment, that is what it seems like.'

'O-oooh m-yyy God!' She fell backwards in her chair and started crying helplessly.

Jones waited for a moment before speaking again. 'Is there someone we can call to be here with you? It would be good for you not to be alone after a shock like this. Perhaps a relative or a friend?'

Liz breathed heavily for a while and then she suddenly took control of herself again. 'No, please. I appreciate your concern, but I'd rather be left alone.'

'Are you sure...?' Jones left the rest of the question hanging.

'Quite sure.' The reply was sharp and instant. She softened her voice and continued: 'We're not from these parts, you see, and even though we've lived here for quite a while we really don't socialise that much and don't have any close friends.'

'Where are you from, Mrs Singer?' Barnaby entered the conversation for the first time.

'Eric's from Minnesota, America that is, and I'm from…' she paused and wiped away some tears, 'Lincolnshire.'

After giving their condolences once more, they arranged that Liz was to come down to the mortuary at 2 pm the following day for identification. She followed them to the door and wished them a good night.

'Strange that,' Jones said back in the car.

'What?'

'Following us out and wishing us a good night, after news like this?'

'It's in their breeding,' answered Barnaby philosophically, ignoring Ben's raised eyebrows.

**Wednesday**

Ben was early at the station. He still wasn't sure about it, but if what Barnaby had said was true, he was the senior officer in charge and he had better prepare the CID morning meeting.

It was confirmed when the Chief Super came by his tiny office and informed him. The Chief Super also asked for a few minutes at the meeting to inform the group. Ben continued his preparation. When Gail passed his door he looked up and gave her a smile. She smiled back at him, but she looked awfully tired. She must have continued the party elsewhere, Ben thought, smiling to himself.

At 8 o'clock they were all gathered in the conference room and Chief Super Cotton made his entrance. He looked out over the gathered detectives and declared, in his usual sweet-talking way, that he had absolute confidence in placing the command of the CID in DS Jones's capable hands. Even though Ben knew that Cotton had this manner and that he was always "selling" a message, he couldn't help feeling his ego grow on him. Just to have it punctured flat when Cotton ended his monologue with: 'And even if he isn't officially on duty until the 1st, DCI John Barnaby will of course be a resource that you can count on and is at your disposal. Isn't that right, John?'

John Barnaby, placed discreetly at the back of the room, answered: 'Of course, sir.' But he had no intention of rising and taking over the meeting. Instead he nodded as CS Cotton left and then turned his eyes to Jones.

'Right,' said Ben, 'what we have to deal with is the church burglaries. Five churches have been robbed and vandalised to date. Some of the church silver has been nicked and they've also destroyed a lot of the interior.' Ben paused. 'So far we know almost nothing about the perpetrators. Are they thieves? Young vandals? Satanists? We have more questions than answers, but we have to put a stop to this. I've been on that case, but since we had a death in Badger's Drift yesterday, I'll look into that and leave the burglaries to DC Stephens. OK?' His eyes questioned Gail and she nodded in response. My God, she really looks like she could use some sleep, crossed Ben's mind. I'd better have a word with her later on.

He continued: 'As for the death it actually also took place in a church, but so far everything points to a suicide.' He turned his back to the room and put a photo of the hanging man up on the whiteboard. 'The dead man appears to be the church warden and he goes by the name of Eric Singer. We've informed the widow…'

His sentence was interrupted by the sound of someone rising hastily and turning over a chair. Ben turned around to see Gail Stephens run out of the room with her hand over her mouth, heading for the ladies. Damn, he thought, he'd really have to have a serious talk with her.

'Hush hush,' he silenced the chattering colleagues, 'she's probably had something bad to eat!' He could see in their eyes that they didn't believe him for a moment, but at least they went quiet.

'As I said we've informed the widow and she'll be in this afternoon to identify the deceased and I will go out to Badger's Drift right after this meeting to interview the vicar, Dave Errol, who found the body.' He paused to let the information sink in. 'You all go on with your present business and those who work with the burglaries report to Stephens in an hour, when I've handled the case over to her.' He caught Gail's eyes as she was now standing in the doorway to the room, so pale that a paracetamol would have looked like a mole on her skin, and nodded towards his office. She slipped silently away in that direction.

'Sir?' he turned to Barnaby.

'You go and have a chat with Stephens. I have a few things to discuss with the Chief Super. Do you mind if I go with you to see the vicar later?'

'Not at all, sir. See you at the car park in an hour.'

* * *

Gail sat uncomfortably in the visitor's chair in DS Jones' tiny office. She still felt nauseous and cursed herself for not being able to control her stomach. She hated the thought of lying to Ben, but without doubt that was what she would have to do.

Ben came in and slowly sat down behind his desk. He carefully cleared some papers away before he finally looked up at Gail and said with a sigh: 'Late night was it? A little bit too much to drink? Didn't know you were off to another party.' He tried to mask how uncomfortable he thought the whole situation was, but the look on his face gave him away.

'Look, Ben, it's not what you think..' Gail spoke softly in an attempt to disguise her voice, which she thought was trembling.

'Isn't it?' Ben seemed a little relieved but was still cautious. 'What is it then? You look as if you haven't slept for a week.'

'It's true I didn't get much sleep last night. But not for the reasons you think. I just couldn't get to sleep. That's it!'

Ben murmured and waited for her to continue.

'And of course I overslept this morning and was in a heck of rush, so I threw down a left-over tuna sandwich I found…' Gail swallowed hard before she went on with the lie. '…and it must've been iffy 'cause I felt a bit sick already in the car park.' There, now it was done. The lie she'd thought of was out. She held her hands clutched to her thighs so as not to show how she was trembling inside.

Ben looked at her for a moment and then gave her a broad smile: 'Good! …I don't mean that you were sick… ah, you know what I mean…'

'Yes, of course I know. Think nothing of it, you had to ask.' Gail said graciously, feeling a great weight being lifted from her chest. They looked at each other for a few moments, both feeling very relieved, but for completely different reasons.

'Now, as for the church burglaries,' Ben got down to business, 'you know almost as much as I do, but here are my notes and the plan of action I had made…'

They began to talk about the case and within the hour Ben had handed all the information over to Gail.

'Now I'm off to Badger's to see the vicar together with the boss.' Ben rose from his chair. 'What do you make of him so far?' he asked Gail.

'I haven't had much to do with him yet, but he seems nice enough.' she answered.

'Yeah, I think so too, I mean just to let me act as the SIO…'

'That's good of him, but be careful. I don't think you should cross him just because you can. I get a feeling he can be hard as stone underneath that pleasant exterior.'

'Hmm, maybe you're right…' said Ben as he walked out to meet the person in question.

* * *

'It was the police, they'll be here in half an hour,' Dave Errol put his phone down and turned to Agnes Olsen, who was sitting comfortably in the kitchen, drinking her tea.

She put the latest edition of the parish news leaflet down on the table and said: 'I'd better be going then.'

'I wish you could stay. Talking to the police makes me so nervous, since…' He didn't finish the sentence and tried to steer his thoughts away from his ex-wife, Margarita, now in jail for murder.

'You'll be fine,' Mrs Olsen patted his cheek gently, 'I'm sure they are perfectly nice people and they just want to ask you some questions. Bye then, vicar!'

As she left through the back door Dave said after her: 'Please, Agnes, it's Dave.' But he already knew her answer 'That just won't do. You are the vicar after all.'

* * *

'Please, have a seat.' Dave Errol showed Barnaby and Jones into the large sitting room of the vicarage. He remained standing himself by the fireplace, nervously fiddling with one of the little dog statuettes on the mantelpiece. 'I got the impression Chief Inspector Barnaby was coming too?'

'I am in fact DCI Barnaby,' said John and stretched out his hand towards Dave Errol, 'DCI John Barnaby.'

'Oh,' Dave Errol nervously fingered his lower lip, 'are you related in some way?'

'Cousins, as a matter of fact.'

'Oh, I see. Well, I understand you have some questions?'

'Yes, Mr Errol,' Ben talked gently, noticing how the poor man had his nerves on display, 'we understand it must've been a most disturbing experience but can you tell us in your own words what happened last night?'

Dave Errol remained silent for a while with his eyes closed, as if he was searching for inner strength, before he began to talk.

He had gone to the church and almost immediately seen the man hanging. He hadn't seen who it was and didn't dare to go any closer for a better look. He had slipped down on one of the church pews and almost fainted. After a few cries for help he had remembered he carried his mobile phone in his pocket and had managed to make the 999 call.

'That's when Mrs Olsen came in,' he said, looking at the two policemen with tears in his eyes, 'she helped me out to one of the benches outside the church. I wanted to go home, but she persuaded me to wait for the ambulance and the police.'

'Did Mrs Olsen go in again?' John Barnaby shifted position in the old rococo chair.

'Yes, she went in again to see who it was and she told me it was Eric.' The vicar gave forth a loud sob.

'How well did you know Mr Singer?' asked Ben.

Dave Errol thought for a few seconds. 'Not at all really, I'm afraid. Eric's been a churchwarden for 3 to 4 years now, but he was very private with his faith and his personal life. We only discussed practical matters occasionally, so I can't say I knew him.'

'Do you know his wife?'

'I'm afraid I don't. I know her by sight of course, it isn't a large village, but she's isn't a visitor of the church. Actually I don't think I've ever seen her in church, though Eric attended Sunday communion every week.'

'Can you think of any reason why Mr Singer would have wanted to end his life?' Ben searched eye-contact with the vicar to look for any sign of reaction.

'No, no, none at all,' Dave buried his face in hands, 'it's all so terrible. What troubles can drive a man so far?' He lifted his face again, just to sneeze loudly into his handkerchief.

'Thank you, Mr Errol. That'll be all for now.' Ben rose and made ready to leave.

'Just one more question, Mr Errol,' John had also risen from his chair, 'why were you at church so late?'

Dave Errol hesitated only for a second, but it was long enough for John to notice, before answering: 'It's all those church burglaries… of course. I went there just to make sure everything was undisturbed.' The vicar let out a small sigh, when he thought about the lie he had just told. Hopefully God would forgive him.

'Well, we'll be off then,' said Barnaby and made for the door with Jones accompanying.

Behind them they could hear a few more sobs from Dave Errol and a weak: 'If only we had put in an alarm instead of those cameras…'

Barnaby and Jones froze mid-step and turned around. 'What did you just say, Mr Errol?' Barnaby's voice was sharp.

Errol looked at them with great surprise and fear. He was like a little schoolboy afraid of doing wrong.

'Please, Mr Errol,' said Barnaby with a much softer tone, 'explain to us what you meant.'

'Well, with all those church burglaries that's been going on lately, the parish council decided to have surveillance cameras installed. We got them just a few days ago.'

'Cameras? Not an alarm?' Barnaby was eager now.

'No, there was a discussion about that alternative, but we want to keep the church open at all hours for our congregation, so we decided against it.' Dave Errol looked at Barnaby as if to see if the answer would please him.

'How do they work? Is it recorded?'

'I don't know anything about the technical details, but we put them on as soon as there is no staff left at the church and I think it is recorded, because they came with something they called a hard drive where the films would be stored, as I understand it.'

'Aah,' John let out a deep sigh of disappointment, 'so Mr Singer would have turned them off when he entered the church?'

Dave Errol scratched his head. 'You know, I don't think so… Eric's been away for a few days and you need a code to turn them off… and he hasn't been at home to get the code.'

Barnaby pondered for a moment whether to ask Mr Errol to return with them to the church, but decided against it. He didn't seem to be a technical genius. Instead he asked the vicar to give the phone number of the company that had installed the cameras to Jones. He also carefully stored the information that Eric Singer had been away from home in the large archive that was his brain, before turning to Jones: 'You contact the installation company and meet them in the church. Meanwhile I'll have a word with Mrs Olsen.'

* * *

John Barnaby strode purposefully up the short path, bordered by fragrant lavender bushes, to the front door of the little thatched cottage on the edge of Badger's Drift and pressed the bell. A dog from somewhere inside answered with a few deep-throated barks and almost at once the door, which was on a chain, was opened a fraction.

'Yes?' Agnes Olsen peeped outside suspiciously.

'Mrs Olsen?' The figure inside, of which John only had the impression of a large pair of heavy-framed round glasses, nodded. 'May I come in? I'm Chief Inspector Barnaby from Causton C.I.D.'

'You can't be!' Agnes tried to shut the door but John Barnaby held it back with one hand while with the other presenting his warrant card.

'Oh! Just a minute! I have to shut the door first in order to open it.' This Agnes Olsen did and John could hear the chain being released from the door with a clatter. 'That's better! Do come in!' Agnes held the door wide for her visitor.

'Thank you so much.' John took in a frail, thin, elderly lady whose hair was swept into a bun at the back of her head. He noticed that she was wearing a cross on a chain round her neck, and over her shoulders she had an open-weave woollen shawl, almost certainly hand-knitted.

'When you said 'Inspector Barnaby' I was expecting...'

'Cousins,' said John, hoping to cut short the explanation.

'Oh! Well, it's nice to keep it in the family.' Agnes showed him into a low-beamed sitting-room, full of dated but good quality furniture. 'Do sit down.' John sat down on a sofa covered in a floral print while Agnes sat in a matching armchair, pulling the open-weave shawl more closely around her shoulders. 'I was expecting you ― that is to say, I was expecting...'

'Quite,' said John Barnaby, crossing his legs. 'I understand, Mrs Olsen, that you discovered the body of Mr Eric Singer last night, shortly after the Reverend David Errol.'

Mrs Olsen's face fell and she looked down, clutching her hands tightly together. 'It was dreadful ― simply dreadful,' she said. 'That poor, poor man. And such a good Christian! He never missed a service. But what I was most concerned about was the effect on Mr Errol. He's a very... _sensitive _man, you know.'

'Really?' said Barnaby, wondering whether by 'sensitive' Agnes Olsen might not mean 'weak'.

'He had all that dreadful business with his wife... well, she _was _his wife. But you wouldn't know about that, of course.'

'I did hear something,' said Barnaby non-committally.

'And now _this_!' Agnes leaned back in her chair and shook her head.

Barnaby cleared his throat. 'I also understand that you entered the church at about ten thirty last night, is that right?'

'Oh, yes, yes... that's right.' For a moment Agnes Olsen seemed lost for words.

'Rather late, isn't it, to be visiting a church?' John Barnaby looked at her with a kind but searching gaze.

'Yes! Well...' Agnes gave a little high-pitched laugh. 'I was so stupid, I left my bottle of Brasso there.' She fingered the cross round her neck nervously.

'Your bottle of Brasso?' John repeated the words slowly.

'You see, I clean the brass in the church every week ― there's quite a lot of it in St Michael's, specially the lectern, and I do like to have it all gleaming for the congregation ― and I just remembered, as I was about to turn in, that I'd left it there. And I _hate _leaving things lying around because... well, anybody could take it, couldn't they?'

'You can never be too careful,' said Barnaby, thinking that it was more than a bottle of Brasso that had gone missing from Midsomer churches recently.

'Oh!' said Agnes, almost jumping up out of her chair with surprising agility, 'where are my manners? I had boiled the kettle just before you got here.'

'Oh, really, I don't think...' but Agnes Olsen was on her way to the kitchen. 'Come on, Buster, go and lie in your basket!', for as she opened the door a lugubrious fawn-coloured Boxer came slowly in, wagging its stumpy tail. 'I hope you like dogs,' she said as she disappeared, giving John no chance to answer.

John stared at the dog, leaning forward, and the dog stared at him. 'Good dog!' he said unconvincingly, thinking how quiet and undemanding Buster was compared with Sykes, his own frisky little mongrel. Buster walked slowly to his basket in the corner of the room and settled down, resting his chin on his front paws and looking up at John gloomily.

Agnes returned with a trolley on which was a tea-pot covered with a tea-cosy, again almost certainly hand-knitted, milk, sugar, tea-cups, side-plates, clotted cream in a little dish, strawberry jam, and a large plate with three scones on it. 'I made them yesterday,' she explained, offering John a scone. 'Mr Errol does enjoy my baking.'

'I see.' John accepted the offering and proceeded to load it with cream and jam.

The dog, sniffing food, crawled out of its basket and approached Barnaby, its stumpy tail wagging like a metronome set to _prestissimo._

'Go back to your basket!' said Agnes sharply. 'What you need is a good long walk!' The dog looked at Agnes hopefully. 'Which reminds me,' she continued, 'there's something I really must tell you.'

John Barnaby had opened his mouth wide to accommodate the over-laden scone, but he managed to say 'Please do, Mrs Olsen,' before popping it in, leaving only a moderate amount of clotted cream and strawberry jam on his upper lip.

Agnes leaned forward and lowered her voice, speaking conspiratorially. 'I was walking Buster along the path through the wood behind here when I saw them.'

'Saw who, Mrs Olsen?' asked John indistinctly, munching.

'Well, I don't know _who _they were, but there they were, a girl and a boy, beside the path, without a stitch on. They were _'at it'_, in broad daylight ― except that it was dark at the time.'

'You mean they were 'dogging', Mrs Olsen?' John wiped his upper lip.

Agnes stared at him. 'No, no, Inspector. You misunderstand. _I _was dogging. I was walking Buster, my Boxer.' Buster, who had returned to his basket disappointed, pricked up his ears for a moment. 'I've seen them before, you know. Well, not the same ones ― I couldn't tell you that ― but I've seen this sort of...' (she struggled for a word) '...activity before. It seems to be a haunt of theirs _― _of that sort of people. I've reported it to your young men in Causton, too, but they won't do anything about it. Now, you do agree with me, Inspector, that it's got to be stopped, don't you? It's so thoroughly immoral. And it quite scandalised Buster, didn't it, Buster?' She addressed the dog, which returned her look of disapproval.

'I'll look into it,' said John, with an ill-disguised smirk. 'When exactly did you see this... activity?'

Agnes Olsen thought for a moment. 'It always happens on a Tuesday.'

'Every Tuesday?' asked John, in an attempt to humour the good lady.

'No,' said Agnes thoughtfully. 'I would say it happens about every four weeks. Yes, just about that. The last time I stumbled upon them ― almost literally, Inspector, it was dreadful ― it would have been... let me see. Three weeks ago. Yes,' she said brightly, delighted that her memory had served her so well, 'three weeks ago last Tuesday. That's it. Because it was just after Whitsun, and I remember thinking how sinful it was for people to be doing _that _after such an important holy weekend. Oh, Inspector, there's one scone left!', for the third scone remained unclaimed on the large silvery plate on the trolley. '_Do _have it, I'll be baking some more tomorrow.'

John looked at the scone and shook his head, patting his considerable paunch. 'I'm afraid I couldn't, Mrs Olsen,' he said, 'though they're the best scones I've ever had.' In truth, this was hardly a lie.

Mrs Olsen looked very satisfied and, getting up, she put the plate on the little Chippendale side-table beside John. 'Can't you be tempted?' she asked.

'I rather think I can,' said John, swiftly removing the scone from the plate, which he now noticed for the first time. 'That's a very unusual plate, Mrs Olsen. Where did you get it?'

'Oh!' said Agnes with her high-pitched giggle again, 'it came from the 'Age UK' shop in Midsomer Magna. They do such splendid work for the elderly and I do think it's our Christian duty to support these charities whenever we can, don't you?'

'Hmm.' John Barnaby had picked up the plate. The silver finish caught the light as he turned it over. There was a hallmark on the underside. 'If I am not mistaken, this is made of solid silver, Mrs Olsen.'

'Oh, but it can't be!' said Agnes. 'It only cost a pound. It's made of tin, surely?'

'Do you mind if I take it away to get it valued, Mrs Olsen?' asked John.

'By all means,' said Agnes, 'but only after you've finished your scone first.'

* * *

The little charity shop in Midsomer Magna had no customers, as was usual on a Thursday morning, and Cathy, after re-arranging the unwanted blouses and tops in strict order of size after the destructive pokings about of a few determined senior citizens on the previous afternoon, who as usual had bought nothing, was free to let her mind wander. Caradoc. Her new prince, or knight of the Round Table, as she had discovered from looking up his name on-line. Not that that was his real name, of course, but in a way she was not keen to know his real name. Caradoc was romantic enough.

She thought back to the Tuesday evening when she had chosen him and he had chosen her. The rite was over and the young members of this _al fresco _gathering had paired off into the wood with their customary lack of inhibitions. She had had one or two partners before, but they had been quick five-minute stands, nothing to make her want to repeat the experience. But Caradoc was different. He was good-looking, courteous, and took his time. Maybe, just maybe, this was what she had dropped out of college for. An art course in _The Nude in Modern British Painting _had seemed attractive enough, but in fact it involved too much academic analysis of existing paintings, when Cathy would have preferred to put the theory into practice. This vacancy in the _'Age UK' _ shopthat she had found was only a stop-gap measure, a means to support herself while she worked out what to do next with her life. And it left her free to do what she liked in the evenings, to enjoy the great outdoors… and meet boys like Caradoc. Yes, Caradoc was the one.

'How much?' The elderly grey-haired man in front of her brought her down to earth with a bump. 'How much are these gloves?' The elderly man waved a worn pair of brown leather gloves in her face.

'Oh!' said Cathy, startled. 'All the gloves are 50 pence a pair.'

'Too much,' said the elderly man, who took the gloves back to the stand where he had found them and shuffled out.

'Mean old git,' said Cathy to herself and walked into the tiny kitchenette at the back of the shop, where she mechanically switched on the kettle. Her thoughts returned to Caradoc. She tried to picture him as an old man. Surely he would never behave like that… he was kind and generous, and great fun when he was on top of her under the majestic oaks of Midsomer County. And next Tuesday she would have the chance to meet him again… Her mouth felt dry at the prospect.

* * *

Barnaby arrived at the church gates at the same time as the van from the installation company drew up. It had 'Meehan's Alarms' printed in big red letters on the side.

It took the alarm technician only a few minutes to enter the surveillance system and reset the time of the film to yesterday evening. After getting instructions as to how to fast-forward Jones asked him to wait outside while they watched the sequence. What they were about to see made the hair on the back of their necks stand on end.

The burglar entered the church, dressed all in black and wearing a balaclava, with a sack in his or her hand, and began to rush around, apparently looking for valuables. Suddenly the figure in black froze, obviously disturbed by something and disappeared behind a large cupboard.

A moment later they could see Eric Singer enter the church in the soft evening light. He seemed to tip-toe, looking carefully around him in every direction. He had obviously entered the church suspecting that a burglary was in progress. Singer reached for the light switch and turned it on. Then the burglar appeared from behind the large cupboard, holding a shotgun that must have been kept in the sack, pointing it at Singer. They could see how Singer quickly raised his hands in the air, while he appeared to start talking to the black figure and from the look upon his face begged for his life. The burglar made a gesture with the gun and Eric Singer lowered his left hand picking up his wallet and mobile phone out of his pocket and dropped them in the sack held forward by the burglar.

'Where's the sound in this thing?' Barnaby asked with an intense look, not taking his eyes off the screen.

'Sorry, sir, there's no pick-up of the sound. It's film only,' Ben replied.

It was impossible to say if the burglar spoke as well, since the whole face, except for the eyes, was covered.

Pointing the shotgun at Singer, the burglar directed him further in to the church. They stopped under the beam where Singer had subsequently been found hanging. The burglar took a rope out of the sack and threw it at Singer. The rope had a hangman's noose at one end. The black figure made some gestures with the gun towards Singer and probably said something as well, since Singer obviously understood the instruction to get a chair, climb up on it and tie the other end of the rope around the low beam.

Barnaby and Jones both swallowed hard as they now had to witness how the trembling and crying Eric Singer got a poke from the barrel of the shotgun in his stomach. Trembling while trying to keep his balance on the chair and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Eric Singer placed the noose around his own neck.

They could see how he screamed in agony as the burglar went up close to him, probably said something to him or looked him in the eyes, and then kicked the chair away…

The rope was pulled taut by the weight of Eric Singer's body and his feet twitched desperately as the life ran out of him…

'Oh my God,' Jones shivered with revulsion, 'I can't believe it.' He swallowed hard a few times. 'That was an execution!'

Barnaby said nothing. He just continued to stare at the screen where Eric Singer's body was hanging, now all still. He closed his eyes for a few seconds before he spoke. 'That was the most cold-blooded thing I've ever seen in my entire career.' He paused. 'Bloody awful it was.'

The two men sat in silence for a quite a long while. Barnaby broke the silence: 'Mrs Singer was right. Her husband didn't commit suicide. Not that this will make her any happier…'

'What are we dealing with here?' Jones thought out loud. 'An ordinary burglar staging a spontaneous execution?' I don't get it.'

'One thing's for sure,' said Barnaby, 'this man or woman is no ordinary burglar. This is now officially a murder investigation and it's definitely linked with the church burglaries, so this and Stephens' investigation are now one.' Barnaby looked at Jones and then came out with a question that surprised Ben: 'What's your next step, sergeant?'

'_My next step?' _Ben thought confused, before remembering in a split second that he was the SIO. 'Well, sir, we'll have to call Stephens and her team in and I'll put Gail on to examining this film with a fine-tooth comb. She's the technical expert, you know.'

'So I've heard,' said Barnaby, 'so I've heard…'

**To be continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wednesday continued**

Peter played nervously with his now-empty bottle of Magners cider and smiled at the barmaid the other side of the bar. The barmaid had asked for proof that he was over eighteen and Peter had produced his ID card declaring him to be 'Peter Milner', but, as he thought to himself, it should apparently read 'Peter Cutler'. Did he really want to meet this unknown man? He had spent many months and quite a bit of money in his attempt to trace his birth father, but now, with a lump in his throat, he wasn't quite sure that it hadn't all been a big mistake.

His mother had been rather vague as to who he was. The only thing she was certain of was that he had a tooth missing, knocked out in a brawl outside a nightclub in Blackpool, where the two of them had met some nineteen years ago. She knew he was called Gary, and she thought he had said his last name was 'Cattle' or 'Kettle' or something like that, but as she had only spent a few hours with him, mostly on the beach at night, she couldn't be quite sure. He had been just twenty and had said that he worked for a printing firm in Birmingham. The Salvation Army had taken up the challenge and, though the printing firm had gone out of business, had found records of the few employees that had worked for them on the date when, Debbie Milner had said, with a surprising grasp of arithmetic, she enjoyed her night of drunken passion under the North Pier at Blackpool during a girls' weekend away from Midsomer. The only possible candidate was a Gary Cutler, now a long-distance lorry driver living in Scunthorpe.

Debbie had subsequently married Jim Milner, a respectable accountant living in Badger's Drift, and had only told Peter that Jim was not his real father when Peter was sixteen. Peter had been quite an unruly child, but had grown into a young man with a keen interest in outdoor pursuits, of which his parents approved, though they were never quite sure where he often spent most of the night ― _outdoors_, he had assured them, looking for badgers.

Peter looked at his watch. Ten to two. He was still early. He looked at the three other men standing at the bar or sitting on bar-stools. Only two were approximately of the right age, the third being well over forty. One was completing a crossword in the _Causton Echo _and the other was listening to music through headphones, occasionally nodding up and down in time with the beat. Peter felt like asking them to open their mouths. But no, the single-page handwritten letter he had had forwarded to him had said that Gary would be wearing a blue tie, and neither of these two were wearing ties at all. It had also said that he would _be at the bar_ of The Feathers, on the London Road, Causton, at two o'clock, which is why he discounted the twelve or so singles and couples who were sitting at tables round about. Perhaps he wouldn't come at all? Though he had said he would be passing through Causton about that time on his way from Basingstoke to Scunthorpe, after delivering a load of electrical goods for one of his company's clients.

He looked at his watch again. It was now two o'clock. The tension was almost unbearable. He smiled once more at the barmaid, realising that she was really very pretty, with tousled hair and a curvaceous body. Normally he would have been chatting to her by now, but on this occasion...

'Haven't seen you in here before,' she said, taking the initiative.

'No,' said Peter, gulping. 'I'm waiting for my father.'

'That'll be nice for you,' said the girl, in what Peter took as a put-down.

'I haven't met him before,' explained Peter desperately.

'Haven't met your dad before? Go on, you're having me on,' said the girl, with her elbows on the bar, leaning towards him. Now she was obviously teasing him. 'You seem to have finished that Magners pretty quick.'

'Oh ― I'll have another one. Please,' and he gave a short nervous laugh.

While the girl was attending to his order he glanced down the bar and noticed that another man had come in and was waiting to be served. This man was wearing a badly-fitting suit, as though he was not used to wearing suits, and had a blue tie round his neck. Peter's heart raced and thumped in his chest. There was no turning back now.

'Excuse me,' he said, calling over to him, 'but are you...?'

'Peter?' asked the man, staring at him. 'I see you're wearing your Black Sabbath T-shirt, then?' (for the only distinguishing feature that Peter had said he would wear was a retro T-shirt with the distinctive Celtic cross design of the legendary rock group).

'Yeah,' said Peter with his quick nervous laugh, feeling the sweat suddenly start to pour out of him. He had got up and approached the stranger as if in a trance. He wasn't sure whether to shake hands, or hug him, or do anything at all. In fact he did nothing at all. Was this really his father? He had a weather-beaten face and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, although he was only thirty-nine, as the passage of time since Peter's conception had made clear, but he had a twinkle in his eyes which Peter thought he recognized in himself. Then he laughed a nervous, short laugh, and Peter was certain. The left canine tooth in his upper jaw was missing.

'Shall we sit down at a table?' suggested Gary.

'Oh ― yes,' said Peter, suddenly remembering his second bottle of Magners, which he now scooped off the bar, to the bemusement of the barmaid, whom he completely ignored.

They found a table and Peter sat down, but Gary suddenly remembered where he was : 'Drink!' he said, and went back to the bar again to order a pint of best from the by now rather disgruntled barmaid.

While he was away Peter tried to analyse his feelings. He was immensely relieved to meet his father at last, disgusted at how old he looked for his age, dismayed that he was only a long-distance lorry driver, angry at him for never having shown up in his life so far, and ecstatically happy to have found him at last, all at the same time.

His father returned with his pint and sat down slowly. 'I ― er― um, I'm sorry that... you know.' He took a long draught of his beer, seemingly having trouble in expressing himself.

'Oh, that's alright,' said Peter quickly and confidently.

'Your mother … has she been looking after you OK?'

'Oh, couldn't be better,' said Peter, with his short laugh. He thought that he should have added _'dad'_, but the word came strangely to him, as if from a foreign language.

'She's married now, isn't she? So you've got a proper dad?'

At this tears welled up in Peter's eyes. 'Well,' he said, his earlier confidence evaporating, 'he's alright. In fact he's very good to me. And to mum.' He felt miserable.

'And I'm married, too.' This was a surprise to Peter, who looked up at him sharply. 'Not quite like your mother,' said Gary, as if to reassure him. 'But still, she's pretty good. And we've got a daughter.'

'Really?' Peter wanted to hear more.

'Cathy, she's called. Pretty little thing. A couple of years younger than you, she is.'

'So... I've got a _half_-sister,' said Peter, trying to work it out.

'Well, I suppose you have.' Gary scratched his ear. 'Though she left home a couple of years ago and I don't know where she is exactly.'

Peter stared at his father.

'We did get a message ― last thing we heard she was down this way, at the Midsomer Uni in Causton, doing some arty course. But when we tried to contact her it all went dead. They said she'd dropped out of college and didn't know where she was now. I reckon she's been led astray. You haven't been led astray, have you, Peter?' Gary sounded concerned for his son for the first time.

'Of course not,' said Peter, his mind whirring.

'What are you drinking?' asked Gary, noticing that Peter had by now drained all of his second bottle. The atmosphere between father and son had thawed considerably, and Peter felt comparatively relaxed, though the cider might have helped.

'Magners,' he said. 'Thanks, dad.'

* * *

'How did she take it?' DCI John Barnaby asked Jones, as he leaned backwards in his chair and stretched out his legs, putting his feet on his temporary desk.

'Not well,' Jones sighed, 'I had to get someone to take her home.'

'But she identified the body?'

'Yes, she did. But when I told her that her husband didn't commit suicide after all, but was murdered instead… Well, she nearly fainted. Couldn't get much sense out of her. But apparently it was not unusual that her husband should be out late while she went to bed. They even have separate bedrooms because of their very different sleeping habits. So, she was at home asleep, unaware of anything. Poor woman…'

'What's to do next then?' asked Barnaby, giving Jones a requesting glance.

Before Jones could answer Barnaby called out to Desk Sergeant Angel, who was passing the door.

'Yes, sir?' Angel looked in.

Barnaby picked up the plate he'd borrowed from Mrs Olsen and held it out to Angel. 'Could you see that someone takes this down to one of the jewellery shops and gets it valued?'

'Of course, sir. Is it urgent?'

'Not particularly, but within a day or two perhaps?'

'Sure, sir. I'll get back to you as soon as we know anything.' Angel took the plate and walked out.

Barnaby turned to Jones again. 'You were saying..?'

'I guess there's not much to do other than going through the case files of the previous burglaries again,' Jones let out another deep sigh. 'The forensics report from the church gives zip zero to go on. Our only hope is that Gail can come up with something from the videos.'

'Hmm, I get a nasty feeling about this, don't you, Jones?' Barnaby wrinkled his forehead and looked at his sergeant. 'If the burglar had sprung out and bashed Singer on the head and then run off, I would've thought it quite normal, if you get my drift? But to commit a cold-blooded execution… It doesn't fit the pattern…' Barnaby let the unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

'Of a common burglar,' Jones filled in, 'No, I see what you mean, sir. But with all this vandalism in the other burglaries perhaps we're dealing with a complete loony who really hates the Church for some reason?'

'Perhaps,' said Barnaby as he let his feet down onto the floor again and opened the first case file. He looked up again at Jones: 'Talking of burglary, even though we have a murder to solve, could you get in touch with the vicar and ask him what was stolen from the church?'

**Thursday**

Gail sat in Causton CID's computer room, where they had advanced machines for analysing films, sounds etc. She felt quite uneasy about the task she had ahead of her. Jones had told her what to expect and the mere thought of it made her already present nausea grow even stronger. But it had to be done. She fixed her eyes on the screen and started the film.

She ran through the film slowly, changing between the different camera angles, looking for something that might give a clue to who the figure in black was, but it was impossible to tell.

It could be a man of medium height or a tall woman. The black outfit made it hard to get an impression of the body size. It was a slender person, but that was about it. She tried to enlarge a picture of the murderer's eyes, but the camera shot was too far away at those brief moments when the murderer was facing the camera. The enlarged pictures she could get were too pixelated to even reveal the colour of the eyes.

When Gail came to the part where Eric Singer was standing on the chair, crying and begging for his life, the nausea overtook her. She didn't make it further then the door where she had to throw up in a waste-paper basket. She sank down on the floor with her back to the door and tried to calm her breathing. _'Was it going to be like this?' _she thought to herself. _'For how long..?'_

She wiped the sweat off her face before she went to the ladies' room to have some water and clean up the waste-paper basket.

On her way back she left the basket in a broom cupboard and made a detour to the canteen to get a cup of tea.

Back at the screen she went over the film several more times without finding anything. She was just about to give up when something flashed before her eyes. Slowly she reversed the film, adjusted the focus and played it back again at maximum slow speed. There it was!

When the murderer threw the rope to Eric Singer, a small strip of skin showed between the sleeve and the glove. Suddenly Gail's tiredness was all gone. She began to adjust the focus even better and to enlarge the picture even more. There was something on the skin that was visible.

When the largest picture she could get without it being all blurry came up on the screen, Gail froze and felt like a huge belt was tied around her chest, pressing harder and harder…

On the wrist was a tattoo of a symbol. The symbol was in the frame of two bees much in the shape of a vagina framing a sword pointing upwards. A symbol Gail knew only too well…

Her heart pounded with a scampering pace. What was she to do? She told herself to calm down and to make sure of it she went for another cup of tea.

'_Bugger!' _There in the corridor stood Jones and she couldn't take another route, because he had already seen her.

'Aah, Gail. Found anything yet?' He looked at her with his usual kind smile.

'No… not yet, but I have another hour to go I reckon. That's why I brought some tea,' she said, showing him the cup. In her mind she cursed herself. _'Why make a number of a cup of tea? I mustn't let him get suspicious.'_

'Right,' said Ben, 'you look as if you could need it. You do look awfully pale, Gail. Sure everything's alright?'

'I'm fine, thank you,' said Gail as she passed Ben and hurried back to the computer room.

She stayed in the computer room until she was sure Barnaby and Jones had gone home for the day before turning off the equipment and going home herself for another sleepless night.

* * *

John lay in his bed looking at the ceiling. It was hard to get to sleep as he went over the brutal murder of Eric Singer in his mind, over and over again. They had spent the entire day talking to people living close to the church, but no one had seen anything. They also waited for Gail's analysis of the film, but these things took time. John knew that. He decided to think about something more pleasant.

Tomorrow was Friday. After work he'd take the train down to Brighton. It would be good to spend the weekend at their home, which Sarah would stay in until she had finished term.

The house they had bought in Midsomer was nice enough, but so far all John had was a bed, an electric kettle and instant coffee. Life could be more luxurious!

He longed for both Sarah and Sykes. It would be good to have a nice meal, a glass or two of the red wine they both liked so much and a night in their comfy bed, with a naked Sarah beside him… And in the morning a cooked breakfast and then a long walk with Sykes. John's eyelids got heavier as he dozed off to these pleasant plans.

**Friday**

'Is this my new morning routine?' Gail Stephens said out loud to the image of herself in the bathroom mirror, as she washed her face and began to brush her teeth to get rid of the nasty taste of vomit. She studied herself. She looked pale and gloomy. Better not spare on the make-up today, she decided. She didn't want to attract any more attention from Ben's observant eyes.

At least she had made her mind up. And what a plan she had made. Yet another lie. What a fantastic way to start the working relationship with her new boss. But she couldn't afford to tell the truth, not now with her application for the sergeants' course about to be decided.

She shivered at the thought of speaking an untruth, but at least the essence of what she was going to say was true. Gail had decided she had to set the DCI and Ben off on the right track. The risk otherwise was too great that somebody else might discover the same thing as she had. No, she'd tell them the essence of the truth, she'd just have to leave out some bits and pieces.

* * *

'Come in,' Ben's voice was loud and clear through the shut door to his office.

Gail stepped in and asked: 'Is the DCI around yet?'

'Yes, he was at the coffee machine just a minute ago. He'll be here shortly. What is it? Have you found out something?' Ben looked at her with anticipation.

The loud footsteps of John Barnaby's size 13 were heard approaching. Gail waited as he entered the room and sat down.

'Gail's got something, sir,' said Jones excitedly.

'Aah, good. Well then, what is it?'

Gail told them about the video and how she had found the tattooed symbol on the murderer's wrist.

'But that's great. Good work, Stephens!' Barnaby munched cheerfully on his doughnut and looked really pleased that there was some progress at last. 'Do we know anything about this symbol?'

Gail swallowed hard. Telling the first part had been the easy bit. It was all true. Now came the hard part where she had to navigate through some lies and a grain of truth. 'Well, as a matter of fact we do.'

Both Barnaby and Jones sat up straight and gave their full attention to Gail's words.

'I thought the symbol was familiar. You know how I've always been a bit interested in ancient history and religions…' She nodded towards Ben hoping that he would be eager enough to confirm it, even though she had never once mentioned the subject to him. His eagerness made him swallow the bait and he confirmed with an 'Unh-hunh'.

'So I did a bit of research,' Gail continued, 'and did some googling and found that the symbol is for 'Maeve', one of the old Celtic fertility goddesses.'

'Strange,' said Barnaby, 'but at least it can't be a very common subject for a tattoo, can it?' He looked between Stephens and Jones alternately.

'Wait, sir, the best is yet to come. There is a Celtic society here in Midsomer…'

'Yes, but that's hardly hot news, is it? I mean there are historical societies dipping into Celtic, Roman and Anglo-Saxon history all over the country,' interrupted Barnaby, sounding disappointed.

'Only…' Gail paused for effect before she delivered the real news, 'the society here in Midsomer isn't a historical society. It's more of a Celtic church, actually worshipping the old Celtic gods in general and the goddess Maeve in particular.'

'Now that's what I call good news,' Ben said, addressing his comment towards the DCI as he felt Barnaby's previous interruption had been harsh and unjust. 'Do we have any more information on this Celtic… cult?'

'Not much, they're rather secretive, no websites or Facebook groups about their activities, but I managed to find out that the person in charge is a Joan Osbourne and here's her address.' Gail held out a piece of paper, which Barnaby eagerly snapped out of her hand, and she hoped they wouldn't ask how she had discovered this information. Of course they didn't, they were like hunting dogs with a scent. All their focus was now pointing forward, to follow the track.

* * *

The address Stephens had handed over was to an old and posh estate in outer Causton. The garden was as large as four football pitches behind a high and well-trimmed hedge. A hedge that "naturally" was trimmed by a hired gardener. The surroundings, however, were made up of small houses, built in the 50's and 60's and now owned and inhabited by hard-working middle class families. Probably the big house had once been a large country estate, much of the land having been sold off at some time in the past, so that it was now integrated into an ever-expanding Causton.

Jones parked the car on the street outside the big iron gates, since he could see no driveway up to the house wide enough for a car. Barnaby and Jones walked slowly up to the house, admiring the garden on their way. It was full of beautiful shrubs and flowers and there were several fountains with a number of marble statues. The statues all seemed to be naked and some of them in quite explicit positions.

'Take a look at that one!' Jones' eyes were staring as he tugged at Barnaby's jacket sleeve to attract his attention.

John turned his head and looked straight at a large fountain in the middle of which stood, no doubt about it, a huge phallus statue with water ejaculating vividly out of it. They stood and watched the unabashed creation for a few moments, when Barnaby suddenly realised: 'The fountain pool is in the shape of a vagina!'

'What is this...?' Jones shook his head as they slowly began to walk again.

At the front door they found an entry phone. Jones pressed the button.

'Yes?' A very soft female voice spoke.

'Is that Joan Osbourne?' asked Jones.

'Yes. And who are you?'

'We're from the police and we'd like a few words if we may,' Jones adopted a polite tone.

'The police? What do you want to talk to me about?' The woman sounded surprised, but John thought he could detect a small nuance of amusement as well.

'Perhaps if we could come in…'

'Alright. Just walk through hall, I'm in the sitting room at the end.'

Inside was a long hall with a ceiling at least 12 feet high. They walked slowly, admiring the mahogany panelling. The walls also were adorned with plenty of paintings that owed nothing to modesty but revealed everything. The people on the paintings appeared to be from an ancient time and they were involved in uncensored fertility acts.

'Jesus,' whispered Jones, 'if this was printed in a magazine there would be an age limit for buying it.'

'Or should be,' said Barnaby.

As they reached the end of the hall a woman came to meet them. Barnaby hoped that his gulp wasn't audible. Joan Osbourne was a tall woman, somewhere between 35 and 45, Barnaby guessed, with long, thick blond hair hanging down onto her shoulders. Her eyes were almond-shaped and clear blue. Her cheek bones were high and between them was a perfectly-formed nose. Her lips were 'amorous', which was the best word John could think of, and they framed a broad and tempting mouth. She was an astonishingly beautiful woman, but that wasn't what caught the two detectives' attention.

Over her shoulders she was draped in a transparent poncho-like negligée. Beneath it she exposed large and firm breasts with nipples pointing through the almost non-existent fabric. The belly was flat and her waist was slim, curving out into generous hips that continued down into a pair of long exquisite legs. Her feet were bare. Between the navel and the tiny knickers that barely covered her pubic hair, she had a large tattoo of the 'Maeve' symbol.

Inevitably both Barnaby's and Jones' eyes dropped one floor down and it took them a few seconds to gain the willpower to lift their eyes to her face again.

Joan Osbourne looked at them with an amused smile on her lips. She was used to this kind of male attention. She anticipated their stuttering introductions with: 'Welcome. Please follow me.' As she turned her back on them and began to walk she confirmed that the only thing she was wearing that wasn't transparent was a G-string.

Barnaby and Jones followed her into the sitting-room, unable to look at anything other than her perfect bottom moving before their very eyes. They managed to raise their eyes just in time as she sat down on a large sofa, facing them again. 'Please, do sit down,' she said as she herself pulled her legs up and adopted a half-lying position.

'_This is the sexiest woman I've ever seen. I can die happy now,' _went through Ben's head as he searched for the words to begin.

Barnaby realised that for the moment Ben was lost so he began: 'Mrs Osbourne, or is it Miss..?'

'Miss.' was the short answer encouraging him to go on.

'Miss Osbourne, I am DCI John Barnaby from Causton CID and this is DS Jones. We're here to ask you a few questions about what we understand is some kind of religious society you're involved in. A society for the worship of Celtic gods?' Again John just couldn't help himself when his gaze fell down onto Joan Osbourne's breasts as they moved when she shifted position.

She sought eye-contact with Barnaby and helped him to "lift" his eyes up again. She smiled at him. 'This is my home, Inspector, and I do dress as I want… or rather do not dress…' Her smile was spiteful.

'Of course,' Barnaby mumbled.

'You should be glad I'm wearing knickers today,' she said referring to the minute G-string, 'or perhaps you shouldn't..?' She was mocking them, but she did it with a warm and generous smile. 'Now, how can I help you? You said something about Maeve?'

* * *

Dave Errol had just returned from his morning shop at the convenience store in Badger's Drift and was laying out his purchases methodically on the kitchen table when he heard a _tap-tap-tap _on the door. He knew who it was before looking up, but on this occasion Agnes Olsen seemed unusually agitated.

'Vicar!' said Agnes as soon as he opened the door, 'I must speak with you!'

'But of course, dear Agnes, you know you're welcome at any time,' said Dave, 'I was about to make some tea myself. Do come in!'

'This is no time for tea!' said Agnes, rushing in and planting herself in the middle of the room. She turned round to face the surprised clergyman. 'I have committed a mortal sin.'

'Dear me,' said Dave, stroking his chin, 'how can that be?'

'I told the police a lie.'

'A lie? Now, Agnes' Dave held out his arms as if in comfort.

'You don't understand, vicar. They wanted to know what I was doing in St Michael's so late at night. I said I was there to collect my bottle of Brasso.'

'Ah.' The vicar stroked his chin again and approached the kitchen table slowly. He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking up at the distraught lady. 'How is that a lie?'

'Vicar, you _know _it isn't true. You know why we were there you and I.'

Dave Errol thought for a moment and then said: 'But you could have been there to collect your Brasso, couldn't you?'

'Has it not occurred to you,' continued Agnes, 'that you are as guilty as I am?' She pulled up another chair and also sat at the kitchen table, but at the other end from the vicar. 'I am praying for God's forgiveness for what we have done.'

'Now, Agnes,' said Dave, 'what we have done is not a mortal sin. And, to quote the good book, _"let him that is without sin cast the first stone"_.

'Are you sure of that?' asked Agnes, her tone softening, as if a quotation from the Bible had worked some miracle-cure. 'I mean, that it wasn't a mortal sin?'

'Quite sure,' said Dave with greater confidence. 'I think we should speak no more about it. And now why don't you have that cup of tea?' He got up and went over to the kettle, switching it on. He reached for the shelf above the kettle and took down a small plastic bottle full of white tablets.

'Oh! Well, if you insist…' Agnes seemed to have regained her normal equanimity, much to Dave's relief, but, to be on the safe side, he slipped a tablet into her cup, covering it with a tea-bag.

'This will calm your nerves,' said he, after pouring the boiling water into the cup and stirring. 'It does trouble me, Agnes, to see you so upset. All over nothing.' He handed Agnes the cup in a saucer.

'Well… if you say so,' Agnes picked up the cup and took a sip. For the first time that morning she smiled at the vicar, who now stood close behind her. He put his hand on her chest, just below her right shoulder.

'Let the tea do its work and forget all about it,' he said, moving his hand ever so slightly up and down.

'Vicar, you are a great comfort to me,' said Agnes. 'Shall I pop in with some freshly-baked scones later on? You know you like them.'

'I can't wait!' said Dave, a curious look of desire coming over his face, though whether or not it was in anticipation of the freshly-baked scones it was hard to tell.

* * *

Barnaby and Jones exchanged glances. The message from Barnaby was clear, he was going to conduct this interview. 'I see you have a tattoo of what I guess is the symbol of Maeve. Do all members of your… society have this tattoo?'

'Not at all,' answered Joan Osbourne, 'many do, but certainly not all of them. It is absolutely voluntary to have one, like everything else in our community. But why are you interested in that?' The spite still played in her eyes.

'A tattoo just like the one you have has turned up in an investigation, and…'

Joan Osbourne's loud and cheerful laughter interrupted Barnaby: 'Oh, I see. Someone's stumbled over someone, with a Maeve tattoo, at the wrong time in the "wrong" place.' She continued to laugh and showed a perfect set of white teeth. 'But surely this can't be a matter for a Chief Inspector from the CID?'

'I'm afraid it's a bit more serious than that. But what we're interested in is if you have any member who carries the tattoo on the wrist?'

'More serious..? I want to know what this is all about before I answer any more questions.' Joan Osbourne's happy smiling face had turned grave, which in no way reduced her beauty.

'If you don't mind,' Barnaby's voice was sharp, feeling he had to take control of this conversation and this woman, who just by changing her facial expression could easily confuse any heterosexual man. 'I'm the one who decides what information you will get and what questions there are to be answered… Is that clear?'

'Alright. Don't get so upset,' Joan Osbourne pouted her lips in a way that probably made many men gasp for air. 'I think we've had one or two over the years with the tattoo on their wrist.'

'Could we have their names, please,' asked Barnaby with a sigh of relief. Finally they were getting somewhere.

'No.'

'What… No..? Miss Osbourne, must I remind you again that…'

'No, as in I don't know!' Now it was Joan Osbourne's tone that was sharp.

'What do you mean you don't know?' Surely…'

Joan interrupted again: 'As in, I don't know their names. I don't even know what they look like. Above the shoulders, that is…' Her face regained its glittering smile.

'Are you seriously trying to convince me that you don't know the identity of the members in your – er – community? I find that hard to believe.'

'Believe it or not, I don't care. Our community is based on free will, but because of the nature of our activities… no, wrong… because of the public's oppressive view of our rituals, all members are anonymous and wear masks. I'm the only exception, but I don't care a toss about public opinion and I am proud of what I am!' Joan Osbourne's face had reddened during her outburst. She glanced challengingly in Barnaby's direction.

John felt his previous satisfaction being punctured like a balloon. But there must still be some way of getting more information out of this extraordinary woman.

'Let me put it this way then, do you have anyone attending your meetings that has the tattoo on the wrist?'

'No… no, definitely not. It must be years since I saw someone with a tattoo on the wrist. Most of our members put their tattoo on more discreet parts of the body. If you see what I mean..?'

Barnaby let out a deep sigh. 'How many years back?'

'I have honestly no idea, Inspector. You see, our members vary over time. Some periods there's been as many as 30 to 40 of us, other periods we've been down on 9 or 10. Some members have been with us for years, others are only in for a short while and then they disappear, some for good while others come back. You see, Inspector, we're not a regular society with membership cards, fees and so on. We're just a loose community of people who enjoy worshipping true love instead of Christianity's hypocritical and oppressive lectures on moral standards.' Joan Osbourne leaned back in the sofa, somewhat taken aback by the force of her speech. As she breathed heavily Jones couldn't help admiring her heaving bosom.

'Miss Osbourne, I really must ask you to think back on those members with a wrist tattoo. Anything you can think of could be of help to us.' Barnaby switched over to diplomatic tactics. 'You see, this is a murder inquiry.'

Joan Osbourne sat up straight. 'A murder inquiry? Committed by someone with a Maeve tattoo? I can hardly believe it…' She looked sad. 'Our faith is all about love.' She ended the sentence as if she had personally been offended if some former member was suspected of being a murderer.

'As I am sure you are aware,' said John, 'there have been several burglaries of Midsomer churches over the past few weeks, with not only theft but vandalism as well. Could any one of your members bear such hatred towards the Church that they would do something like this?'

'No, no, no,' Joan became upset, 'as I said, our faith is all about love. We don't hate anyone, or the Church, even if we do regard their moralising as a bit stiff. On the contrary, I suspect we have several regulars church visitors among us, who believe in combining Christ's message of "love thy neighbour" with Maeve's message of making love.' She paused and then almost whispered: 'Vandalised churches and now a murder? So one of these burglaries must have gone too far and you now think that someone with a Maeve tattoo on their wrist is guilty? I really can't believe it…' There was nothing wrong with the intellect of Joan Osbourne, that was obvious. She had immediately made the connection. 'How? How did it happen?'

When she received no immediate answer she fell silent and, as nothing more had been said for a while, Jones broke the silence: 'I'm afraid that's privileged information at this point, Miss Osbourne, but perhaps you could tell us a bit more what the Maeve…' he searched for the right word, '…cult is about?'

Joan Osbourne lifted her head and woke from her temporary reverie. 'Of course, as I said it's all about love and nothing that we're ashamed of.'

'_Why then all this anonymity and masks?' _John thought to himself.

'We believe Nature created us to be free creatures enjoying life and the gifts the gods gave us. Maeve shows us the way to enjoy the liberated company of other human beings. The lifelong and coercive habit of marriage is a pure invention by the Church. Man and woman are not meant to only have one partner. Look at all the other mammals!' Joan Osbourne had regained her enthusiasm, now that she was describing something she really cared about.

'What does that mean in a practical sense?' asked Jones.

'We gather once a week in various places around Midsomer, in a wood, that is. We light a bonfire and then we dance out of pure joy to be liberated people. Our dance fills us with healthy pheromones and pumps us up with adrenaline. It is wonderful. You should try it!' She beamed a smile towards Jones, making him consider actually doing so.

'Miss Osbourne, you are aware that nudity in public places…' Jones was satisfied he might have found a method to put some pressure on her.

'…is illegal. Of course I know that. But we meet at private properties, where we have been for ages. I guess my mother must have had quite a few landowners dancing by her side when she gave Maeve the spiritual re-birth she so well deserved.' She continued: 'And if the mood is right and a couple is attracted to one another, they might head out further into the wood…'

'To do what?' slipped out of Ben before he could stop it. He could've bitten his tongue off, because for some reason he didn't want to appear naïve in front of Joan Osbourne.

'Well,' Joan gave Ben a mischievous smile, 'I don't know what they do. I don't follow them. But I know what I do when I find a man that attracts me… or a woman…'

'I think we have a pretty clear picture by now, Miss Osbourne,' Barnaby interrupted before Ben was too far out of his depth. 'That will be all for now and please, do try to think of anything you could tell us about former members. I'm sure we'll be in touch again.'

He rose and signalled to Jones to do the same. When Joan Osbourne attempted to stand and follow them, Barnaby said: 'Please, we'll find our own way out.' He didn't want Ben, or himself for that matter, to be distracted again by Miss Osbourne's minimally dressed appearance.

As the front door closed behind them John and Ben looked at each other and smiled.

'Now that was something out of the ordinary,' Ben spoke.

'Yes, it sure was,' John agreed. He became thoughtful. 'I think we'll put surveillance on Miss Joan Osbourne. I have a hunch something will happen next Tuesday, outside Badger's Drift.'

Jones looked at his not-really-in-charge but-very-much-so boss with great confusion, but said nothing as the boss continued to speak.

'I don't really believe in such a loose community that they don't even know each other's identities. And that Venus of a woman could easily manipulate England's national football team to lose to Liechtenstein twelve nil, just by pouting a lip or lifting an eyebrow.'

Just as they reached the car and opened the door, they heard a 'Psst, psst' coming from around the corner of the hedge. They turned around and faced a short, generously built woman with red roses on her cheeks somewhere in her 50's. She seemed very anxious to have a word with them.

'_Generously, that's a very kind word,' _thought John, _'downright fat is a more accurate description.'_

Towards the woman he smiled and said: 'Yes? How can we help you?'

'You're the police, aren't you?' The lady had quite a squeaky voice that was an ill-match for her voluptuous body. 'It's about time you were here, I'd say!'

'Excuse me?' Barnaby didn't know what to make of it.

'You've been to see that Osbourne woman, haven't you? And I trust it is to put an end to her swaying around all naked in her garden, isn't it?' The woman was of the kind that spoke on inhalation as well as exhalation. The words flooded out of her mouth, now that she finally found release for an obviously long-built-up irritation. 'You know, I went to see her, as good neighbours do, when we were new around here. And do you know what happened? No, I'll tell you, she opened the door stark naked, that's what she did. Disgusting! That's what it is. I won't let my Donald go near her, that's for sure.'

As the woman took one of her rare pauses, Barnaby took the chance: 'And Donald is your son, Mrs..?'

'No, it's my husband of course,' she looked at Barnaby as if he was short of few brain cells, 'Walker, that's us. Mr and Mrs Donald Walker.'

'_Poor Donald,' _crossed Barnaby's mind, _'he must have earned a few well-deserved sneak peeks of Joan Osbourne if he lived his life with this wobbling loudspeaker.' - _while he politely said, to cut the pointless discussion short: 'Well, Mrs Donald Walker… of course we'll keep an eye on things. Good day to you.'

Mrs Walker seemed satisfied with his statement and didn't even react to the obvious sarcasm when called by her husband's name. She whispered an 'At last!' as she disappeared behind the hedge again.

Back in the car both Ben and John broke into a roar of laughter. When they had calmed down and wiped the tears from their eyes, Ben stated: 'I sure will remember this day for the rest of my life… Mrs Donald Walker… how could you?' They began to laugh again.

When they finally drove off John said: 'Remember to let me off at the station, will you?' The rest of the journey continued in silence. John tried to think about the case, but found he had a hard time letting go of the image of Joan Osbourne's breath-taking appearance.

His thoughts turned to his old, now deceased, uncle, married to his mother's sister. His uncle had for some reason always found his place in the audience whenever there was any activity involving young female athletes, preferably with short skirts or shorts. Volleyball had been one of his favourite games. He remembered once when his mother had complained about her brother-in-law to her sister. That she had to do something about George, he was a spectacle the whole village was talking about.

His aunt, who'd never been what you would call a pretty woman, had looked calmly at his mother and said: 'I don't mind if George gets his appetite elsewhere, as long as he has his meals at home.' End of discussion. John smiled at the memory.

Joan Osbourne had sure enough given him a large appetite and, without knowing it, Sarah would hopefully want to benefit from him having his "meal" at home. He wondered how Jones' "meals" were served, but decided it was too early in their relationship to ask.

**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Monday**

John Barnaby had almost dozed off at his desk when the phone rang. It had been a long drive up from Brighton this sunny Monday morning and he had had to start early. He had however decided to bring his car up to Causton. Being without it in this rural county was not an option.

Ben had already reported the weekend's "action" on the Singer case, which was close to nil. Joan Osbourne's house had been kept under surveillance from a nearby high building, but the most exciting thing that had happened was a few times when she went out stark naked into her garden. If you were to believe the young DC that witnessed this, these were events worth remembering for a life time. But nothing really happened, she didn't leave the house or have any visitors.

With a slow arm movement Barnaby picked up the receiver. 'Causton CID, Barnaby speaking.'

'Oh, is it Chief Inspector Barnaby?' A nervous voice spoke into Barnaby's ear. 'Of course it is, you just said so, didn't you?' A nervous laugh followed. 'Hi, this is Dave Errol.' A short pause. 'You know, the vicar in Badger's Drift?'

John Barnaby sighed heavily. He had recognized the reverend's voice at once. 'Of course I do. Good morning, Mr Errol. How can I help you?'

'Your nice young sergeant called the other day and asked what had been stolen and… I couldn't do it myself. The thought of being alone in the church still fills me with horror, but yesterday, after communion, Mrs Olsen helped me go through the cupboards.' Dave Errol still sounded quite upset.

'And what was stolen?'

Dave Errol read Barnaby the items and Barnaby jotted them down on his note-pad.

'So, nothing of any great value seems to be missing,' said the vicar, '… except the silver chalice, which is invaluable! We simply must have that one back. It dates back to the 14th century and was a gift from the founder of the church...' Dave Errol held onto his last words as if he had something else on his mind, but he kept silent.

After quite a long period of silence Barnaby asked: 'Was there something more, Mr Errol?'

'Oh, well… I'm afraid I don't really know if this is at all something I should trouble you with. It probably isn't and that was what I said to Agnes… Mrs Olsen that is, but she was insistent that I should inform you, when we discussed it. On the other hand, as I said to her…'

'Mr Errol, let's get to the point, shall we?' Barnaby felt even more tired than before.

'Of course, Chief Inspector, of course. It's just that… Oh my, I'm doing it again, aren't I? To the point, yes, the point… What are we supposed to do with Eric's car?' The question came out of the blue, hitting Barnaby like a slap in the face.

'With Eric's car? I think you'd better explain this in a bit more detail, Mr Errol.' Barnaby fought to keep his voice restrained. He knew how he was going to instinctively react, but there was no use in getting upset with the vicar.

'Oh, yes, of course. Well, Eric's car has been standing here on the car park across the road, ever since the night of…' Barnaby heard Dave Errol swallow hard. 'Ever since the night of the tragedy… And I can't get a-hold of Mrs Singer. She's not answering my calls. What should we do with it?'

'Since the night of the murder? Are you out of your wits, Mr Errol? Why haven't you told us this before? Why have you…' Barnaby had to pause, breathing heavily. He'd done it again. Lost control. But how could this stupid clergyman… He took some deep breaths before continuing. 'Sorry, Mr Errol, I've had a bad morning. You were saying the car has been in the car park since the night of Mr Singer's death, right?' Barnaby didn't wait for Errol's confirmation but went on: 'Whatever you do, Mr Errol, don't touch the car, please?' For some reason Barnaby imagined that was just what Dave Errol was about to do.

'No, of course not.' Dave Errol couldn't help feeling a little bit hurt by this policeman's attitude towards him as he put the phone down. The previous DCI Barnaby had seemed a much gentler man.

John didn't put the phone down. He just ended the call using his finger and immediately called George Bullard. He explained the situation and Bullard promised to send a team out at once.

Probably a search of the car wasn't going to yield anything. The murderer was obviously a burglar, but they couldn't afford to leave any stone unturned in this case. The lack of clues was soul-destroying...

* * *

'Why are we going to see Mrs Singer?' Jones asked as he steered his car out of the police car park.

'Bullard's running some DNA tests on Eric Singer's car. We'll need hers for elimination, since it obviously is going to be found in the tests.' Barnaby looked sideways at a young mother pushing a pram along the pavement. A short moment of pain went through John's mind as he thought about all the years he and Sarah had tried for a baby. Finally they had settled for Sykes. 'Besides, I want to ask her a question, but you do the main interview about the car.'

Barnaby didn't expand on the subject and Jones drove on in silence. They pulled up on the driveway to the Singers' log cabin. The house was so unusual, but for some reason it melted into the surroundings and didn't look at all out of place.

The driveway was empty and there was no sign of Liz Singer's old Saab. They were just about to get into their car again when it appeared on the street outside and drove in. Liz Singer smiled at them through the windscreen as she parked beside Jones' Volvo. She stepped out of the car and turned to them.

'Hello, here to see me?' She looked quizzically first at Barnaby and then at Jones. The majestic black and white cat showed up from around the corner of the garage. He immediately jumped up on the bonnet of the Saab, curled up and made himself comfortable. Liz stretched out her hand and gave the cat a gentle stroke. 'Dear old Mr Higgins,' she made a theatrical gesture of pretended whispering as she said, 'that's the cat! It's his favourite place now in his old days. The bonnet of the car when the engine is warm.' She smiled at the cat with love in her eyes. 'As soon as it cools off he jumps down and wants to be let into the house.'

Liz opened the boot to take out her shopping bags. With a nod Barnaby directed Ben to take over and carry the bags. Liz Singer thanked Ben with a warm smile and went ahead to open the front door. Once inside she went straight into the kitchen and began to fill the electric kettle with water. Over the noise from the spurting tap, she called out to the two detectives, still in the hallway: 'Surely I can tempt you with a cup of tea? I'm simply dying to have one.'

'Yes, yes please,' answered Barnaby, 'a cuppa would be nice, thank you.' He studied her and thought she actually looked much better than she had done the previous time he had interviewed her. The wrinkles in her face seemed to have faded somewhat and she had obviously been to the hairdresser. The grey hairs were gone and she now had quite an attractive short hair-cut.

A while later they were all seated around the kitchen table. Liz Singer had insisted on offering them some very delicious buns and biscuits. They stirred their tea and took their first sips in silence. Ben finally spoke: 'Mrs Singer, why didn't you tell us about your husband's car? It's been found at the car park near the church, but it's been there for days.'

Liz Singer looked genuinely surprised. 'Eric's car,' she said, covering her mouth with her hand in a gesture of dismay, 'I'd completely forgotten about Eric's car. How could I..? So that's why the vicar has been phoning me, and not to save my soul.' Although the last sentence was delivered with a small, nearly hysterical giggle, tears began to fill her eyes as she gave Jones a devastated look. 'Sergeant, I am so sorry!'

Somewhat taken aback by Mrs Singer's strong reaction, Jones soldiered on with great care. 'It's perfectly understandable in the circumstances, Mrs Singer. You've had a great shock. But we would need to take a DNA sample from you… For elimination purposes only, of course.' Jones gave the blank-eyed widow an encouraging smile.

'Yes, of course,' she said in a weak voice, 'but I can't say I understand why? What has Eric's car and my DNA have to do with anything? Surely, Eric was killed by a burglar?' Her quizzical gaze switched between Jones and Barnaby, searching for an answer.

'It's standard procedure in a murder case,' Jones explained. 'Even though it's unlikely the car has anything to do with the case, we want to leave no stone unturned. We'll search the car for traces of any kind, including DNA, and since your DNA is bound to be found there, we need a sample to be able to identify it.'

'I see,' Liz looked calmer, 'of course I'll give you a sample. How do I do it?'

'Please wait a moment, Mrs Singer.' Jones took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket. He broke the plastic cover and put the gloves on. Then he produced a test tube with a very long cotton swab in it. 'If you would be so kind as to open your mouth I will take a sample from inside your cheek.'

Liz opened her mouth and Jones took his sample. 'Now, there. That was it,' he said, 'thank you very much, Mrs Singer. Now, have you any idea why your husband took his car to the church? Wouldn't it have been more likely for him to take an evening walk?'

'Not necessarily,' answered Liz. 'As I explained the other day at the mortuary, we had very different sleeping habits and Eric often went out at nights, to avoid disturbing my sleep. Sometimes he walked, sometimes he took the car into Causton and went to the cinema. Well, you get the picture.'

'But why would he have gone to the church?' asked Jones

'Well, he was a churchwarden. He often went to the church at odd times, just to make sure everything was safe. It was part of his duties, you know... looking after the church silver. And now with this series of burglaries in other villages, he did it almost every night.'

'What was your husband's line of work, Mrs Singer?' Barnaby entered the conversation.

'He was a book editor. He worked from home, so that's why he could keep his own hours. Nothing to stop him from working in the evenings and sleeping in the mornings.'

Barnaby thought he could hear a small note of disapproval and perhaps a trace of hurt and rejection in Liz's voice.

'And you, Mrs Singer,' Jones continued,' what's your occupation?'

Liz let out a slight sigh. 'I work part time in the kitchen at the local day care nursery for small children. Early mornings it is and early nights for me are the consequence.'

'Right, well, I think that'll be all for today, Mrs Singer. Thank you for the tea!'

'If only you'd been here a little later I could've offered you some supper. Perhaps another time..?'

They rose from the kitchen chairs and Liz followed them to the door. She gave them a warm smile as she opened the front door for them.

'Mrs Singer,' Barnaby said suddenly, 'just one more question. Where did Eric go?'

Liz Singer looked startled. 'I'm not quite sure I understand what you mean, Chief Inspector?' She gave a very confused impression.

'I understood from the vicar that your husband had been away for a few days. The days before…' The sentence was left unfinished in the air as Barnaby studied Liz Singer intently.

'Oh, that's what you mean. Now I understand,' Liz Singer seemed relieved. 'Eric went to see his cousin in Carlisle. Actually it's his second cousin, since it was Eric's grandfather who emigrated to America. Roger is the grandson of Eric's grandfather's sister. So they're not very…' Liz stopped. 'Look at me,' she said, looking ashamed, 'babbling on, as if this was of any interest to you. I'm sorry.'

'It's perfectly alright, Mrs Singer,' John put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He felt for the poor woman as he said 'Good bye' and went to the car with Jones.

'Do you know what?' Barnaby said once they were in the car, 'I actually thought she looked a lot better. New haircut and all. Of course she's still upset, but underneath it's almost as if she's content in some strange way…'

'Just because she'd been to the hairdresser..?' Ben gave Barnaby a sceptical glance.

'I know it sounds strange. It is one of life's little mysteries but some people, mostly women, seem to take to the role of the grieving party.'

'Nah, you're not serious, are you?' Ben looked at Barnaby.

'Oh yes I am,' Barnaby answered, 'it's not that they're not grieving, but the attention they get from others sort of fills up an emptiness in their previous perhaps not that happy life. They are at the centre of attention, if you get my point?'

'I find it hard to believe.' Ben dared his senior officer.

Barnaby didn't answer. The time wasn't right to tell Ben that he had a degree in psychology. He wanted to get to know him better first and not give the impression that he was showing off with a degree.

**Tuesday**

Tuesday evening. The weather had turned and the winds were warm again. Jones waited in his car on the street outside Joan Osbourne's home. The DCI had been insistent that something could happen tonight and that he wanted Jones to be the one on hand. Easy for him to say. Surely he was tucked up in front of the telly right now, watching the game, sipping a cold beer. Ben had had to cancel his visit to the sports bar with the lads. So much for being SIO!

Suddenly a car came out from the driveway. He caught a glimpse of the Osbourne woman driving. She seemed to be alone in the car. With great caution Ben began to tail her.

The drive went through Causton and then headed off towards Badger's Drift. Just as the boss had hinted. Was he some kind of psychic?

About a mile before Badger's Joan Osbourne turned left into a small road into the wood. Jones drove past as slowly as he dared just in time to see that she turned the lights off and parked the car. He found a lay-by a few hundred yards down the road, where he parked and got out. He took his night vision goggles with him and walked backed along the road towards the road into the wood.

He couldn't see any sign of Joan Osbourne, which was just as well, since he couldn't get too close and risk being discovered. But soon enough he found a well-trodden footpath.

* * *

Joan Osbourne surveyed her assembled congregation with a feeling of love and affection. The flames from the fire played with irregular beams of light over their naked bodies. They were only eleven tonight. Not an even number. Not that it would matter. Quite often some of them just settled for the dancing and didn't take a partner into the woods. Sometimes three or four of them disappeared together.

She could see the young man she had named Caradoc looking at the young woman by the name of Ryann. He already showed the signs of a beginning excitement.

She had thought about how to handle the police's suspicions. Was she going to tell her fellow Maeve disciples, with the risk of scaring them away, or was she going to keep silent, since none of them had the described tattoo and could in any way be involved? She had decided on the first option. Their love for Maeve and for each other was built on mutual trust and it would be unfair of her to withhold the information.

So she told them. They reacted with disbelief and anger when presented with the facts, as one would have expected. She hushed them and calmed them. No one here was under suspicion and if they let this affect their rituals the outside world would have won. She nodded towards the two men that played the bodhran drums to begin. The drumming began at a slow pace and the naked bodies began dancing. The beat would increase until they were all pouring sweat, the love nectar of the Maeve dance.

* * *

Jones was beginning to feel lost. It was pitch dark and even if he turned the night vision on, all he could see was trees and bushes. He was about to give up, but decided to climb up out of this creek on to the next ridge. His mood was as sour as his left foot. He had not seen the small stream and had plunged his foot right into it.

What luck that he had continued! Over the ridge he could see the lights from a fire. Very carefully he crouched down and edged closer. He found a large bush from behind which he had an excellent view of a glade. The ground was dry when he lay down and turned his night vision on. He could see nine, no, ten, naked persons gathered in front of Joan Osbourne. Where did they all come from? There must be a lot of places to hide cars around here, he thought.

He wasn't close enough to hear them and the crackling of the fire helped to drown out all words spoken. He adjusted the focus on the goggles so as to be able to get a closer look at their bodies and especially their tattoos. He had only focused on four of them, when they began to dance. Bugger, it all became harder now, but Ben decided to train his goggles on them one by one until he was satisfied. Their various masks helped him to sort out the ones he had checked out from the remaining ones.

When he came to the eighth dancing cult member, he couldn't help watching a little longer than perhaps strictly necessary. He had spotted her tattoo almost at once, on her left buttock, but she was too beautiful to take his eyes off. She was a young woman, in her late teens or early twenties, rather heavily built, but without being chubby. She was just what Ben used to carelessly express as "a robust hunk of woman" when he was with the lads. Just as he liked them. He smiled to himself. This perhaps wasn't the worst surveillance assignment after all.

Ben had finished his visual inspection of the last dancer just as some of them started to pair off into the bushes. Four of them had no visible tattoo, seven of them had, but no one had a wrist tattoo. He sighed as he took a last glance at the beautiful young girl on her way hand in hand with a young man.

* * *

Ryann and Caradoc soon found a nice soft spot of grass to lie down on. They fondled each other with their hands and lips and Ryann could feel Caradoc's arousal press hard against her as they "spooned". His gentle hands touched her breasts from behind and he covered the back of her neck with soft dry kisses. She wanted him so much.

When Caradoc's sweaty and hard-working body released all its tension and loosened his head fell down on her shoulder. His breathing was heavy when he murmured 'That was wonderful' into her soft skin. She gently stroked his hair and felt incredibly happy and fulfilled. Passionate sex with Caradoc was the best thing she'd ever experienced. He was so big and strong and yet so soft and gentle when he touched her.

A thought had been occupying her mind for some time now. Really since the first time she met Caradoc at one of the ritual meetings a few weeks back. But was she ready to speak it out loud? How was he going to respond? She hesitated for a moment, but then she abandoned all caution and asked him: 'Do you know what? I want to see more of you. I want to see you without your mask and I want to know your real name…'

She held her breath waiting for him to reply. He slowly raised his head again and his eyes met hers. She felt it took forever before he finally spoke: 'Peter, my name is Peter. And yours..?'

'Cathy,' she said her name with a huge sigh of relief.

'Cathy,' Peter sort of tasted her name before he gave her a long passionate kiss. They fooled around for a while, holding each other tight and kissing. It didn't take long for Peter to want her again and Cathy took him in with a more demanding feeling than she had ever felt before.

Afterwards, lying side by side on their backs, looking at the stars in the dark night sky, Peter asked for her mobile number. When she asked what he would write it down with he assured her that he would remember every figure. They exchanged mobile numbers and Cathy knew that his number was instantly "carved" into her memory.

The moment had come to unmask, but before they did so, Cathy looked at Peter and said: 'I want to know your surname as well, before we become completely naked.' She laughed at the reference to the mask being the only thing that covered some part of their bodies.

Peter laughed back at her. 'Milady, may I introduce myself? I am Peter Milner. And you, my fair lady, are...?'

Cathy smiled at his pretended lordly manners. 'Right ye are, sir, Cathy Cutler is me name, sir. Ready to serve and obey, Master Peter.' She couldn't help laughing at her own bad imitation of a real country farmhand accent and she looked at Peter to see if he had thought it funny too.

But Peter was not laughing. His facial expression had frozen in what seemed a grimace of horror. He stared at her and then he suddenly got to his feet. 'No,' he whispered, 'it can't be! But it has to be…'

Before Cathy could say a word he turned around and began to run away. She still sat on the ground and couldn't really take in what had just happened. What was wrong?

'Peter, Peter, stop,' she called out after him and got onto her feet and started to run after him. 'Peter, please, what happened? Peter… Peter…'

The dark wood had swallowed him and with tears running down her cheeks she slowed down. What had just happened? she asked herself again for the hundredth time in the few minutes that had passed. As soon as she got home to her mobile she would phone him. Caradoc, Peter, was too good to be true. This had to be some terrible misunderstanding that had to be cleared up, because she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything else in her entire life.

* * *

Ben was about to get up and leave when he suddenly heard a low noise from a short distance beside him. Very carefully he crawled backwards until, sheltered by a bush, he dared to stand up. He tiptoed in the direction of the noise, making sure not to make any sound himself. The low noise kept on coming, it was almost like a grunt. Could it be an animal?

Getting closer he could see the naked bottom of a man. How could one of the dancing couples have got so close to him without his noticing? Then he remembered that the dancers were all naked. This man had his trousers down below his knees and was wearing a fleece jacket. A voyeur!

The man had his full attention on the remaining dancers and his own activities, so when Ben, having crept up behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder he froze, stiff as a plank, and turned a terrified face up towards Ben.

'Well, well, what have we here?' whispered Ben with a strict voice, but smiling inside. 'I think you'd better pull up your trousers and come with me.'

The man's face was still like a mask frozen with an expression of horror. He licked his lips and seemed unable to speak, until he finally croaked: 'Who are you?'

Ben showed his warrant card and said calmly in a low voice: 'Police.'

This seemed to break the man's spell of horror and instead he began to sob as he tried to pull his trousers up. 'Please, I can't…'

'Shhh, not here.' Ben silenced the unhappy little man. 'Walk in front of me and then we'll talk at a safer distance.'

The voyeur collected his things, a camera and a pair of binoculars, and started walking in front of Ben with slouching shoulders, silently sobbing. They walked all the way to Ben's car before they spoke again.

Once inside the car the man burst into tears. 'Please, officer. Have mercy! Don't arrest me, my wife will kill me and it's not my fault they're all dancing naked. It's them that should be arrested for disturbing the peace. That's what should happen.'

'Calm down,' Ben's sharp tone seemed to silence the man at least temporarily. 'Let's begin with you showing me some ID.'

With trembling hands the man took out his wallet and produced his driving licence. Ben took it and studied it carefully. 'Well now, Mr Donald Wanker, sorry… Walker,' Ben couldn't resist making the joke, 'let me first ask you some questions, before we get on to which laws may have been broken. Are you in the habit of watching these… dances?' Ben looked at Donald Walker.

'Uhh, no! This was the first time, I swear.'

Donald Walker was a terrible liar. The sweat was pouring down his face and his eyes could not keep still for a second.

'The truth now, Mr Walker. You'll only make it worse for yourself.'

The man gave up. He broke down in more tears as he confessed: 'I've been following them for three years, ever since we moved in as neighbours to Miss Osbourne. But please don't tell my wife, please.' Donald Walker begged with all the energy he had left.

Something clicked in Ben's memory. But of course! This must be the poor chap that was married to that terrifying woman they had met outside Joan Osbourne's house. This was something that could turn out useful.

'And what does your wife think you're doing?'

'Bird watching,' came as a whisper.

'Bird watching, right. Well, Mr Walker, perhaps we can let her go on thinking that you're a bird watcher. After all, it is "birds" of a special kind that you're watching.' Again Ben couldn't resist a joke at the devastated Mr Walker's expense. 'But that demands full co-operation from your side. Is that understood?'

A small glimmer of hope lit up in Donald's eyes. 'I'll do anything!'

'I see you have a camera. Do you take many pictures of these… meetings?'

'A few,' again Donald Walker was on the defence.

'The truth, Mr Walker, otherwise…'

The unspoken threat loosened Walker's tongue. 'Alright, I take a few snaps on almost every meeting, so over the years… Yes, I have some.'

'Where do you keep them?' asked Ben. He was surely onto something now.

'At home in my laptop.'

'Isn't that a bit risky?'

'Risky?' Walker looked bewildered. 'How do you mean risky?'

'I was thinking about your wife. Doesn't she use your computer as well?'

'Ah, now I see. No, Magda wouldn't find the "on button" on a computer even if she had the manual.'

'Alright then, Mr Walker, here's the deal: Tomorrow at 11 am sharp you will come to Causton police station, with your laptop, and ask for DS Ben Jones. Then we will go through your photos. If you do that, I'll let you off the hook for this "little incident". Understood?'

Donald Walker looked terrified again. 'But what will I tell Magda? Why am I going out with the laptop? She'll ask…'

'You'll think of something, Mr Walker, you'll think of something. Remember what's at stake. And don't even think of erasing your photos. If you do someone will whisper something to Magda…' At the look of the horror showing on Donald Walker's face, Ben had a hard time keeping his smile back. He was sure that Donald would turn up, 11 am sharp, with his laptop.

'Now off you go and see you tomorrow.' Ben unlocked the car doors and as Walker climbed out of the car, he said: 'And do have a good night, Mr Walker.' He got no reply. Ben broke down in laughter as he watched Donald Walker's back hurrying down the road.

**To be continued…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wednesday**

'Sir!' Jones excitedly put a sheaf of typed pages stapled together down on Barnaby's desk.

'Mm, what is it, Jones?' John was sitting drinking hot cocoa from an inadequate plastic cup. Apart from the sheaf of pages deposited by Jones his desk was empty. The DCI, as Ben had noticed before, seemed to spend a lot of time _thinking_.

'The plate from Mrs Olsen ― Angel's had it valued.'

'And?' John was suddenly alert.

'At least two grand. It is a Collection Plate, and to judge by the hallmark it probably dates from 1823, made by Rebecca Eames and Edward Barnard. That makes it Georgian. But that's not the best bit.'

'Go on.'

'You know that Stephens had collated all the information she could from the churches in Midsomer that had had burglaries?'

'Don't tell me.'

'Yes, sir,' said Ben slowly. 'A Collection Plate of that precise description was stolen from the church in Midsomer Worthy about three weeks ago. Here,' and Ben shuffled the papers on the desk, 'it's all in here, sir. Every detail.'

'Well done, Jones,' said John, and Ben felt a glow of pride, even though he did think that perhaps the DCI should have said "Well done, Stephens". 'I think I know exactly where to go to follow this one up. I think we should both go.'

'Go where, sir?'

'The _Age UK _charity shop in Midsomer Magna, Jones, that's where.' Barnaby was already on his feet.

'Anything you say, sir,' said Ben, not daring to ask how his superior had arrived at such an unlikely decision.

* * *

Cathy stirred her cup of instant coffee with a heavy heart. She couldn't understand it. She had texted Peter, as she now knew he was called, over a dozen times, and left a string of voice messages, but still he hadn't replied. He had been everything she had hoped for. She took a sip, remembering his firm young flesh inside hers. She smiled. Her whole body seemed to ache for him. One thing was for certain, the next Tuesday they would meet again and it would be as it was before, before he had so suddenly rushed away. She began to visualize their next session when she heard the bell over the door of the little charity shop ring as it was pushed open.

'Good afternoon.' Barnaby, who was carrying the silver Collection Plate, approached the counter and put it down in front of Cathy.

'Something wrong with it?' she asked.

'I'm sorry?'

'Well, you're bringing it back, right?'

'Oh ― no, nothing like that,' laughed John. Staring at this lovely girl, Ben thought vaguely that he recognised her.

'Only... when people bring things back they usually want a refund.'

Ben thought hard as he watched her, but he could not think why he would recognise a sales assistant from a charity shop in Midsomer Magna.

'So you do remember selling this plate?' asked John in a kindly tone.

'Oh, yes. I remember thinking it was quite unusual. So bright and silvery. But I don't think I sold it to you, did I?'

'No, you didn't,' said John. 'Perhaps I should explain who we are,' he said. 'I am Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby of Causton CID, and this―' he indicated Ben, '―is Detective Sergeant Jones. **Jones**!' he almost shouted, as Ben seemed to be in some sort of trance, staring at Cathy.

'Oh ― sorry, sir.' Ben pulled himself together. Quite tasty, thought Cathy, but inclined to stare.

'Are you here on... professional business?' asked Cathy, her mouth twitching slightly. She remembered what Joan Osbourne had said about the police, and that made her nervous.

'May I ask what price you sold that plate for?' asked John Barnaby.

'Well ― I think it was 50 pence,' said Cathy. 'It's very nice, but it's only a bit of tin, and people have so many plates they want to get rid of.'

John smiled to himself. 'And do you remember how you acquired it? Who brought it into the shop, for instance?'

'Nobody brought it into the shop,' said Cathy at once. 'It just turned up on the door-step, wrapped up in an old overcoat, inside a black bin-liner.'

'Is that usual?' asked John.

Cathy shrugged her shoulders. 'It happens from time to time. People usually bring things in, but if the shop's closed then they sometimes leave them outside. We ask them not to, because people can nick things.'

'Yes, they can.' Ben suddenly spoke.

'And you found this article, wrapped up in an overcoat, outside the shop? When?' John was finding it hard to sound as if he was accepting at face value what Cathy was saying.

'I... I can't remember the day. A week or two ago, I think. I came in to open up at 9 a.m. and there it was.'

'And it hasn't been sold in all that time?' Ben did not even try to sound as if he believed her.

'No. It's been in the back room, you see ― where we sort out all the good stuff from the junk. We throw quite a bit away.'

'Can we have a look at this back room?' asked John.

'And who's we?' asked Ben.

Cathy was by now quite rattled by all the questions. 'Of course... this way,' and she led the way to a room piled high with old clothes and household items of every description, to the side of the kitchenette. 'We is me and Mrs Howell. She's the manager of the shop, but she doesn't come in very much. That's how I got the job ― so she could look after her newborn baby.'

'We'd like her contact details, please, and also yours...?' Ben was ready with notepad and pencil.

'I've only got a telephone number for Mrs Howell,' she said. 'She's on Causton 719-463. And I'm Cathy. Cathy Cutler.'

'Address?' Ben sounded surprisingly sharp.

'Peartree Farm, Midsomer Magna,' she said, rather sheepishly. 'Actually...' and she reached out towards Ben with a radiant smile, which melted the metal in Ben's heart temporarily, 'don't go there.'

'Why not?' Ben sounded puzzled.

'I'm... I'm just dossing there. In the barn.'

'You mean you're squatting?' Ben lifted an eyebrow.

'You... could put it like that.' _My God_, thought Cathy, quaking inside, _these policemen want to know everything. They'll do me for it, or for something, I know they will. And all because of a measly old plate._

While Ben was questioning Cathy John had been turning over the pile of clothes silently with some disgust. To think that people would actually pay good money for this rubbish...

'Hmm. Well, I think that's about it,' said John, who had not seen anything of obvious value in the collection of second-hand tat. But Sergeant Jones apparently had other ideas.

'Could you tell me ― Cathy,' and he returned a glance and a grudging smile towards the nervous Cathy, 'how you feel about religion?'

'Religion?' Cathy sounded astonished at the question.

'You know ― churches and so on.'

'I don't like them much,' said Cathy guardedly.

'You wouldn't call yourself a Christian believer, then?'

'No, I would not,' said Cathy, with a hint of passion in her voice. 'I believe in free love ― not some sort of artificial dogma.'

John Barnaby thought of closing down this discussion, but Ben seemed to have the bit between his teeth.

'How do you feel about churchwardens, Cathy?' he asked.

'Churchwardens? They're some sort of church officers, I suppose?'

'Yes, Cathy. They look after Church property ― including silver collections,' he added pointedly.

Cathy gave a little _'Pah!' _sound as she blew out from her closed lips. 'They're the sort of people I can't stand,' she said. 'But why are you asking me all this?'

Ben turned towards John, who said to Cathy, 'We may have further questions for you, Miss Cutler. Please do not leave the village without contacting us,' and he handed her his card. 'Jones!' as Ben was still looking fixedly at Cathy.

'Oh ― yes, sir,' he said, and the two of them left the little shop, John carrying the silver Collection Plate.

'What was that all about?' asked John as soon as they were outside.

'That Cathy,' said Ben, 'she was at the Maeve ritual outside Badger's Drift. I wouldn't forget a girl like that once I had seen her... naked.'

'Was she indeed? Well done, Jones,' said John, not for the first time. They opened the doors of the Volvo and got in.

'And that story about the plate being left outside ― I don't buy it, sir.'

'No,' said John, starting the engine. 'I'm not sure I do either. It's a bit too much of a coincidence, isn't it ― Cathy the Church-hater, Cathy selling a stolen article of silver, Cathy the Maeve worshipper. We'll have to get in touch with Mrs Howell too, to see if she has anything to do with the silver business.'

'Yes, sir,' said Ben, as they pulled out onto the country road in the direction of Causton.

* * *

'Get hold of Gail, will you?' John said as they stepped out of the car outside the police station. 'Let's meet in the incident room to compare notes and see what we've got so far.'

'Sorry, sir, but I have the "birdwatcher" coming in at 11.'

'Oh, I forgot.' Barnaby smiled at the memory of what Jones had told him about the previous night's events. 'Let's make it after lunch then. I have some errands, but… let's say 3 o'clock. OK?'

'Fine, sir.' Ben headed for reception, where he expected to find a very nervous Donald Walker.

Barnaby made for his office. On his way he passed Gail Stephens' "cupboard" and peeked in to see if she was there. 'Ah, Gail. Good. We're having a meeting in the incident room at 3. Just to catch up. Make sure to be there, will you?'

'Alright, sir. I'll gather the team…'

'No, no. Don't bother with the rest. It'll be you, me and Jones. Just the three of us.'

'Fine, sir.' Gail sighed to herself. Over the past few days she'd done what she could to avoid the incident room. The photo of the hanged Eric Singer made her feel even more sick than the constant feeling of a stomach in disorder she experienced 24/7. But the chief's order was just to obey. She'd make sure to bring a bottle of mineral water, which she had found helped her through the worst moments.

* * *

'Now, let us see what we've got so far. Jones, perhaps you'd care to begin?' Barnaby looked at Ben as he leaned backwards and put his hands behind his neck.

Ben told his story about the ritual he had witnessed and the "capture" of Donald Walker. Barnaby couldn't hold back a laugh, even though he had already heard the story once before.

'I've also had the said Mr Walker in and we looked through his photo collection. I now have it transferred to my computer as well. He's quite a good photographer, I must say.' Ben paused.

Gail felt all dizzy; she felt as if the sweat was pouring out of her pores and prayed the others wouldn't notice. She took a large gulp from her water bottle.

'Well? Did it tell us anything?' Barnaby leaned forward, eager for results.

'Sorry, sir. Nothing that can help us now. He's been following the cult for three years and there are members without tattoos and members with tattoos, but not a trace of anyone with a tattoo on the wrist.'

'Damn.' Barnaby was clearly disappointed.

'But we have really good pictures of everything but the members' faces. There are tattoos, birthmarks and the works, so if we get a suspect we should be able to tell if he or she has been a member of the cult. That said, if we can examine them naked…' Ben smiled at his last words.

'How about you, Stephens? Any luck?' Barnaby and Jones turned their eyes on Gail.

'_Oh my God, she looks pale,' _Ben thought, _'something is clearly bothering her. If only she could confide in me...'_

Gail swallowed hard. 'From the burglaries, sir, nothing so far. Not a shred of evidence. None of the other churches had any kind of security arrangements. So I'm afraid we're stuck there at the moment.' She looked at Barnaby with a worried look, as if asking for forgiveness.

'Well…' John let out a deep sigh, 'we can't work wonders out of thin air, can we? But here's some news for you…', and he told Stephens about the silver plate and the visit to the charity shop. 'I checked out Mrs Howell but that was a dead end,' he said. 'Clean as a whistle. Nothing suspicious there. She definitely hasn't been hoarding stolen silver ― knew nothing about it. And she _gives _most of what she has to the charity shop! Have you found anything else?' Barnaby asked Stephens.

'The background checks are finished, sir. Eric Singer is ― sorry, was, ― as Mrs Singer said, from America. Born and bred in Montana. He married Mrs Singer 13 years ago, in the US, and they moved back to the UK about 7 years ago. Settled at once in their present home.'

'Right… and how about Mrs Singer?'

'She's a bit of a surprise, sir. Apparently she is the daughter of Lord and Lady Middleton. They're still living at their family estate in Lincolnshire.'

'See, Jones, I told you her courteous manners are from her breeding!' Barnaby gave Jones a triumphant smile. 'Go on, Stephens.'

'I talked to the local police and according to local gossip her parents washed their hands of her when she married "beneath" her and with someone as "vulgar" as an American, on top of that. But I'm afraid that's it, sir.' Gail closed her notebook.

'At least that explains why a woman of such obvious high standards earns her living as a cook.' Barnaby looked thoughtful.

'Excuse me, sir,' Ben interrupted Barnaby's thoughts, 'why these background checks? Surely the murderer is the burglar and Eric Singer was unfortunate enough to walk in at the wrong place, at the wrong time, meeting the wrong person?'

'Yes, of course,' answered Barnaby, 'that's certainly the case, but I always find it helpful to have some background on the victims and their families. It helps me think.' Barnaby gave no further explanation. 'Well, let's call it a day, shall we? You, Jones, must have some sleep to catch up with.'

'_If only he knew how little I slept last night,' _Gail thought.

As they broke up Jones said: 'Ready for the floor bandy at 5?' He addressed his question to Stephens.

'Yep,' answered Gail, 'I'll be there.' She had thought about giving the regular Wednesday physics training a miss, but had decided it just might do her some good and help her stomach feel better.

'You, sir? It's a game between the CID and uniform.' Ben looked at Barnaby.

'Floor bandy? No, I'm fit as a fiddle. But thanks for asking.' With horror Barnaby thought back to the last physical he'd had to do in Brighton… and passed with the smallest possible margin. John hated exercise. A walk in the woods was more his kind of training… as long as there was a well-filled picnic basket to go with it. Filled with baguettes, cheeses and a bottle of good red wine. And of course a blanket to lie down on for a nice cuddle with Sarah if the mood was right.

Ben looked at John Barnaby's somewhat bulky figure. _'Fit as a fiddle? Yeah, right!'_

* * *

Gail got the ball on the blade and advanced along the side. The uniform team had been one player short and the CID one too many, so Gail had volunteered to play with the other team and now she was going to score.

Ben looked up from his position of left defender and saw Gail coming. He knew she was fast, so he'd better get out and take care of her. He moved quickly. He saw one of his team members advancing towards her as well. Just as he reached out to hit the ball with his stick he felt another stick between his feet. A fall was inevitable. With his 80 kilos in motion he had no chance to prevent it. He crashed into Gail and they both fell against the wall bars. Ben stretched out his hands and grabbed for something to hold on to.

Ben and Gail both fell into a mess of legs and arms. Luckily none of them hit their head against the wall. Ben opened his eyes and looked straight at the upper part of Gail's bare groin. His hand had grabbed Gail's shorts and had drawn them halfway down.

Ben was about to turn his eyes away when he saw it. There was no doubt at all. It was there. He looked up at Gail, but her attention was focused on getting up. He instantly let go of her shorts and she rose and pulled them up. From the other players appreciative comments and soft whistles were heard. 'Nice, Gail!' and 'Typical of Ben, only getting the job half done!'

She looked at them and fired off a sarcastic smile. 'Enjoying the view, boys? It's a pity you don't get this at home, isn't it?' That seemed to silence the ones that were grinning the most.

'Gail, I'm so sorry… I didn't mean to…' Ben's face was all red as he muttered his excuses.

'It's alright, Ben, at least you've made some people happy.' The last remark was addressed to her still smiling male colleagues. 'But I think I've hurt my ankle. I'll have to call it a day…' As Gail walked out and into the ladies' locker-room, one thought kept hammering in her head ― _'had he seen it?'_

* * *

After showers Ben didn't go straight to the car park. Instead he went up to his office again and turned on his laptop. While he was waiting for it to start up, he kept on thinking. What was he going to do..? Better not jump to any hasty conclusions, he'd go through Donald Walker's pictures first.

He surfed through pictures of naked Maeve dancers. Several of them had a tattoo of the Maeve symbol somewhere in their groin area, but when he came to a picture from last year he knew he was right. He didn't want it to be, but it was. Ben recognised Gail's tall slender figure and, even though she wore a mask, it didn't cover her mouth and chin. It was Gail alright and the tattoo was there, just as he had seen it only an hour ago.

He would have to tell the boss… but he had to talk to Gail first… he wasn't a squealer…

**Thursday**

When Gail saw Ben's face she knew… She had turned her mobile off last night, because she just couldn't take it over the phone…

'Hi.' Ben stood hesitantly in her doorway. 'I tried to reach you yesterday…'

'Hmm.' Gail felt her voice wouldn't hold.

'You know I'll have to tell him…' Ben looked very ill at ease.

'Hmm.'

'But why, Gail? Why..?'

Gail cleared her throat and said in weak voice: 'I was lonely…'

'For God's sake!' Ben burst out, 'I don't mean the cult thing, that's up to you. I mean why didn't you tell us? You've been taking a hell of risk here. Why didn't you just come clean about it in the first place?'

'I don't know, Ben, I don't know.' Gail's eyes filled with tears. 'I've worked so hard to get here. I was afraid of what it might do…'

'Yeah, and now there's a good chance of you having thrown it all away.' The words came out harsher than Ben had intended, but he was so angry with her for letting herself down like this. Before he could say anything more he'd regret he left her sitting at her desk.

* * *

'And now what...?' Ben looked at Barnaby. He had just finished telling Barnaby about Stephens.

'You will go to CS Cotton and inform him and together you and he will interview Stephens,' Barnaby said in his most mild manner. He could see how upset Ben was.

'I will?'

'Yes, Ben, you will. Don't forget you are in charge. I'm only here as a resource, remember?'

'Yeah, I remember,' Ben's deep sigh made it clear that he happily would have handed over the responsibility. 'What do you think will happen to her?'

'It depends on how you put the case forward to Cotton, but if you still have some trust left in Stephens, I think it's likely she can get away with a suspension until this case is over.' Barnaby talked calmly. 'After all, she hasn't done any real damage to the case, as far as we know.'

'No,' Ben became a bit more positive at the DCI's hopeful words, 'I mean, we wouldn't have got the symbol identified so quickly if it hadn't been for her.'

Barnaby smiled at his younger colleague's renewed spirits. 'You're right, though it's not like she found it on the internet, is it? She put us on the right track, unfortunately accompanied with a little lie.'

Ben looked all moody again. 'OK, I'm off to the Chief Super. But what if I choose the wrong words..?'

'You won't,' John smiled reassuringly.

* * *

Gail walked over to Ben's desk and gave him her warrant card. She had looked for the DCI, but he seemed to be out somewhere. 'Thank you, Ben,' she said as he took the badge.

'Thank you? For what?' Ben gave her a sad glance.

'For letting me tell Cotton my version and for not pushing him into taking any more serious action. Ben, a temporary suspension is the easiest punishment I can get away with.' Inside her feelings tormented her, knowing she hadn't told the full truth as yet. But she just couldn't…

Ben gave a wry smile at the fact that she was comforting him and not the other way round. 'Take care, Gail, and I hope you'll be back soon,' he said as she walked out of his office.

Gail had been perfectly honest about her involvement with the cult. That was good, Ben thought. He could even understand her when she told them she was, curious it may seem, really a very shy person, useless at picking up men in pubs and dance clubs. She had felt lonely and the cult had seemed an exciting way to get anonymous physical contact with the opposite sex, without having to go through the whole process of more traditional ways. Making oneself beautiful, going out spending money on clubs and hoping and waiting for "Mr Right" to come along.

She had firmly denied still being an active member of the cult. A few months ago she had met someone, through the cult, and they had both given up attending the rituals. Cotton had pressed her to give her lover's name, to confirm her story, but Gail had assured them she didn't know it. Only his first name, which was Adrian, but they hadn't "exchanged" surnames and after he had broken off their relationship a few weeks back he had changed his phone number and she hadn't been able to get in touch with him since. Cotton had been dubious about it, but Ben had convinced him to trust her.

Ben shook his head to clear his mind of his sad thoughts. He was about to meet the DCI down the pub in 10 minutes for what the boss had referred to as "a Morsefied thinking beer". He could do with a cold pint, whether it helped with "Morsefied thinking" or not. It would be a good ending to a really bad day.

* * *

Peter was clicking through the almost unending list of videos suggested for him on the swedishbabes4u website when he heard his mother coming upstairs. He hurriedly returned to his homepage, which was the _Midsomer Badger Conservation Society._

'What are you doing, darling?' Debbie Milner pushed open the door. 'And why have you got the curtains closed? It's half-past eleven.'

Debbie was a tall woman with cropped black hair and a hawkish nose. She was wearing large ear-rings, as she often did, this morning consisting of three emerald-like pendants, which jangled as she bent over to look at the laptop screen.

'You really are obsessed with these badgers, aren't you?' she said.

'They're part of our heritage,' said Peter, 'and they should be protected.'

'Yes, dear,' said Debbie, sitting down on the bed. 'It's so nice you could come back for a few days to see us, you know.' She looked at him almost wistfully.

'It's only till I get my bedsit in Causton sorted out, Mum,' said Peter, 'you know that. It should be ready tomorrow.'

'A couple of your mates, you said...'

'Yeah, they needed to use it for a couple of days – just till they can move into their new flat.'

Debbie sighed. She knew she hadn't been a very good mother to Peter and when he had asked if he could use his old bedroom for a while she had thought that maybe, just maybe, she would have another chance... 'Peter, in fact I was going to ask you...' she began hesitantly.

Peter's mobile made a chirping sound.

'Who's that?' she asked.

Peter peered at the mobile screen. _1 message received_, he read and of course he recognised the number as Cathy's. He pressed delete. 'Oh, nobody I know,' he said.

'Well,' Debbie swallowed, 'I just wondered how you got on with your father?' She looked at her son expectantly. It had been several days since Peter had met Gary in _The Feathers _and she had never mentioned it, so Peter was taken aback by her sudden interest.

'Oh, alright,' he said awkwardly. 'We got on quite well, actually.'

'That's nice, dear.' His mother appeared to be satisfied and almost relieved by this answer. She got up and put her hand on Peter's shoulder. 'Don't spend _too _long in front of the computer,' she said in a kindly voice. 'You'll go blind.'

As she walked out of the room Peter's mobile chirped again. Debbie hesitated at the door but then continued downstairs. Peter looked at the mobile screen. _1 message received_, he read and again the sender was Cathy's number. He pressed delete again angrily. Delete, delete, delete. Then he turned off the computer screen. He had to think. What was he going to do about Cathy? In one way he felt guilty at deleting all her messages, but the feeling of revulsion that had hit him last Tuesday had been overpowering, all the more so because it had come immediately after the best sex he had had in his young but virile life. His own half-sister! Cathy was everything he could have wanted, perhaps _because _they had genetic material in common. That idea repelled him even more. He had made up his mind, there and then, to have nothing more to do with Cathy. But he was bound to see her again in Marsh Wood next Tuesday. His feelings of guilt were replaced by a steely resolve. He had to show her that he was no longer interested. And he knew that at the Maeve rituals there was always a good supply of available young girls, some of them, he thought with a half-smile, at least as desirable as the girls on _swedishbabes4u_. Yes, he thought, Cathy would have to see that she was not the only one to be chosen by Caradoc.

* * *

Ben found the DCI already sitting at a table in "The Archer" with two full pints in front of him. Now that was also a change. The old DCI had been of the opinion that it was the junior officers' duty to both get and pay for the drinks. He sat down and let out a deep sigh: 'What a day!'

'Don't take it too hard, Ben, it's not like you've been doing anything wrong, is it?' John tried to relieve Jones of the heavy burden of guilt he was so obviously carrying. 'What Gail has done, or rather hasn't done, is entirely up to her. She should've told us… and none of this would've happened.'

'I know, sir, but still…' Ben gave Barnaby a sad glance, 'we used to be so close… I should've known something was wrong.'

'Enough of that,' John took a large swig of his beer and nodded towards Ben to help himself to the other one, 'Gail is a grown woman. She knows what's wrong and what's right and this time she made the wrong choice. I can understand her…' He looked thoughtful. 'Taking part in fertility rituals is probably something one wouldn't want to share at work, but still… she should've told us.'

Ben looked down into his beer. He took a large gulp to swallow the lump in his throat. The beer was just what he needed and after a few more gulps he had finished it and felt a bit better.

John studied his sergeant. Such an intelligent lad and still so sensitive. Pure logic ought to tell Jones he was in no way to blame. Still the sergeant looked as if he was carrying the world on his shoulders.

'Let me get you another one,' John took Ben's empty glass and made for the bar.

'Please, sir, it's my round,' Ben tried to object.

'Not at all, there'll be plenty of time for you to buy me pints later,' smiled John as he took the few steps to the counter.

When he came back to the table he could see that Ben was thinking about something. During his studies in psychology John had often been acclaimed for his skills in observing other people and his ability to actually tell their state of mind just by looking at them.

They drank in silence for a while and then John finally spoke: 'Alright Ben, spit it out.'

'What… sir?,' Ben was somewhat awakened from his thoughts.

'I can see that you have something on your mind. Speak up, what is it?'

'Nah, I don't know, sir. It's just a crazy idea. No, let's leave it.' Ben leaned backwards and began fiddling with his mobile to show he'd made up his mind.

'There are no crazy ideas in a case like this,' was Barnaby's immediate reply, 'it's not like we're having a pile of clues getting us anywhere, is it? Every idea is worth examining. Let's hear it…'

Ben could see from his face that he wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. He cleared his throat. 'Well, it's just…' He paused and thought for another second. 'You see, sir, we know from both Mr "Wanker" and from Gail that the next ritual is to take place in Marsh Wood on Tuesday and I thought…' Ben hesitated.

'Yes? What do you think, Ben?'

'I thought perhaps it would be a good idea to get into the cult. You know… sort of undercover…' Ben waited to see his superior's reaction, because that was how he thought of Barnaby. It didn't matter if he actually was the SIO and could make his own decisions. Barnaby was his boss, period! And he wanted Barnaby to be a part of it. He wanted to share the responsibility, but most of all he felt he trusted the DCI's opinion.

'OK…' Barnaby dragged out the word and was obviously doing some thinking before he continued, 'and how is this going to be staged? Are you in for some nude dancing or do you have someone else in mind?'

'No! No, sir! I don't mean me. I was thinking perhaps… Gail?' Before Barnaby could start to object Ben fired away with his, in his opinion, reasonable argument. 'She is, or was, a member of the cult. She could easily return without attracting suspicion and she is a good copper. She really is, sir!' He emphasised his last remark as if he was ready to challenge anyone who might contradict him.

Barnaby looked thoughtfully at Ben for a long while. 'No, Ben, I'm sorry. It's out of the question. Stephens is suspended and for good reason too.' When he saw Ben's face contorted in despair, he said: 'I admire your loyalty towards her and can see that this would be an opportunity for her to redeem herself, but… it's just not on. There isn't a chance that Cotton would lift her suspension right now.'

Ben sighed. It had been his best shot, not only to get the case moving but also to "save" Gail.

'The idea however…' Barnaby said nothing more and after a few more minutes they broke up, Ben going home to his small flat a few blocks away and John to his empty house in the outskirts of the town.

On his way home John picked up his phone. He browsed through his contacts, found what he was looking for and pressed "dial".

'Stan Malone,' a voice answered.

'Hello Stan. It's John, John Barnaby. I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time?'

'Not at all. Good to hear from you, John. It's been ages…' Stan Malone's dark voice sounded genuinely pleased at the call. 'Still fighting off the bad ones in Brighton, are you?'

After recounting what had happened during the last 3-4 years since they last ran into one another, John got to the point: 'So as you see, I'm in Midsomer now and we have this really tricky case, where we seem to be getting nowhere and then I thought of you…'

'Right, but how can I help? Surely you don't need me in Midsomer, do you?'

John smiled at the remark and the obvious repulsion he could read between the lines. Stan was born and bred a Londoner and really loathed the countryside, which was, in his opinion, the entire nation except London.

'Do not fear, my friend. I wouldn't dream of dragging you out of the smog. You're lungs might collapse if they got in contact with fresh air.' He could hear Stan chuckle at the other end of the line. 'I had something quite different in mind. If my memory serves me correctly you have a unit that specialises in religious cults and those kind of things, haven't you? And… it is, I dare say, under your command.'

'You're right so far, and..?'

'It would be a huge favour if I could borrow one of your officers from that unit for a few days..? Preferably a female one…' John hoped his request wouldn't be immediately turned down. The Yard had no obligation to support a countryside constabulary if the request didn't go through the proper channels. But that would take for ages, a time John didn't feel he had.

'Tell me about it,' was Stan Malone's short reply.

After John's résumé of the case up to this point he held his breath, waiting for his old friend's reply.

'I think I have just the right person for you,' said Malone. 'Yes, she would be perfect.'

'Sounds like sweet music to my ears,' Barnaby said with a new note of hope in his voice, 'who is she? Someone I know or know of?'

'Perhaps you might have heard of her, because she actually came to me from Midsomer a few years back. A really bright girl, she is. She left uniform then and came here to work and now she's one of my best inspectors. The best, I might say.' Stan Malone sounded proud of what he had achieved with this country policewoman. 'Her name is Aubrey Brierly and I'll talk to her first thing in the morning, to see if she is up to it. Going home to where you once started can always be a bit sensitive, but… I really don't think Aubrey will mind.'

'Sounds terrific, Stan, and she's part of your cult unit?'

'Has been since the day she arrived and she is a lovely person, which has turned out to be one of her greatest assets. She can win confidence and infiltrate any kind of obscure sects and societies.'

'Marvellous! Please give her my details and tell her to get in touch as soon as possible, if she accepts. Thanks again and good night.' John ended the call and felt great satisfaction. Perhaps this would be their way to get the investigation moving forward and the pair of extra hands would be of great help, now that Stephens had got herself suspended. John made a mental note that he would have to acknowledge that Jones had come up with the idea.

**To be continued…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Friday**

George Bullard was sitting in his small office down at the mortuary. He had been through the results from the church burglaries and the murder again for the umpteenth time. There was nothing. He was feeling irritated. There had to be some kind of clue.

He picked up the phone and dialled the number of the crime investigation lab in Foddington. 'Hi, Chris, it's George.'

'Yes, my wife is fine and yes, we are actually planning another wine trip. Italy this time,' George answered the battery of questions fired into his ear by his old friend Chris O'Sullivan. 'Look, Chris, I'm in a bit of a hurry, so I was wondering if you have got anywhere with the DNA from the samples we sent over. The ones from the murdered churchwarden's car, remember?'

George listened to his friend's reply and continued: 'No, I know we didn't mark them as specially urgent and I don't really have high hopes of the outcome, but we're getting absolutely nowhere. I would consider it a personal favour if you could hurry things up a bit… Thanks, Chris, and you too. Give my best to Maureen. Bye.'

George frowned. It would take at least till after the weekend before he would hear anything from Chris. He knew Barnaby and Jones were quite stuck and when the detectives got nowhere it was often down to forensics to come up with something. And he usually did. He wasn't used to not delivering.

* * *

Ben stood outside Causton railway station daydreaming. He was thinking about Joan Osbourne. What a woman! She must be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He looked around and his eyes were caught by another pretty sight. A very pretty lady was coming out of the platform gate dragging a travelling-bag on wheels. She had chestnut-coloured curly hair hanging down over her shoulders. She was dressed in a very classy outfit with a jacket and a skirt and her well-shaped calves were encased in black nylon. She wasn't particularly tall and her body shape was what some people would call on the borderline of chubby, though Ben would be the first to object to such a description.

She wasn't at all chubby, she was just something to hold on to. Ben couldn't stand the modern role model for female bodies. The "beauties" of today were all so skinny and all with artificial lips and breasts, which made them look like plastic dolls.

No, women should be naturally soft and cuddly in Ben's opinion and this lady was a perfect example. The "perfect example" seemed to have caught his glances and steered determinedly in his direction. Before Ben was able to think of an excuse for his staring she was right in front of him and said: 'And you must be Ben, I suppose?'

Ben swallowed as he looked into a pair of dark brown eyes and a smile that melted his heart within nano-seconds. He must have looked utterly confused, because now the still smiling woman held out her hand towards him. 'I'm Aubrey Brierly, from the Yard. I reckon you're here to give me transport, aren't you?'

'Ahum,' Ben's tongue seemed to be glued to his dry palate, 'Yes, yes of course. Welcome to Midsomer, Inspector Brierly. Let me take your bag.'

'Oh, I see, a gentleman. I like that,' giggled Inspector Brierly as she let Ben take the bag from her.

'Where should I take you, ma'am,' asked Ben as he put the bag in the back seat of his car.

The inspector looked straight into Ben's eyes and said: 'Yes, Ben, where should you take me?' A mischievous smile played in the corners of her mouth as she emphasised the words "take me".

Ben blushed and went red all over his face. 'Sorry' ma'am, that didn't come out right. Where do you want to go?' He cursed himself for being such an idiot. What a stupid thing to say.

'I'm going to my parents, so you can take me there.' She told him the address and then continued: 'And Ben, it's Aubrey. If you call me ma'am one more time I'll hit your nose so hard you won't be able to separate it from your chin.' But she said it in a very playful tone and kept on smiling.

'Right, right, Aubrey…' Ben stuttered. He seemed to be doing everything wrong in front of this gorgeous woman, who of course was an inspector and out of bounds, but still…

Once they were in the car Ben dared to speak again. 'Shouldn't I take you…' He stopped his sentence, swallowed hard and continued: Shouldn't we be going to the nick first? To see DCI Barnaby?'

Aubrey looked sideways at the nervous sergeant. '_Oh, what a dishy little sergeant he is'_, she thought to herself. Nothing like that dreadful Troy who had always dribbled over her when she worked as a uniformed sergeant in Causton.

'No, I've already got the essential facts of the case and my mission from John over the phone,' she answered, 'so we agreed to meet on Monday. I got the impression he was in a bit of a hurry to get out of here.' She followed the remark with a questioning glance at Jones.

'Yes, I'd reckon. It's Friday and his wife is still living down in Brighton. So he's probably on his way there already, now that you mention it, ma'a… Aubrey', Ben corrected himself at the last minute. Now he looked sideways at her lovely profile. _'Oh my, wouldn't it be a dream to have a girlfriend like her? She looked so pretty and she had to have brains too,' _Ben pondered, '_going all the way to inspector being just…' _Ben made a quick estimate of her age to be just one or maybe two years older than he was.

'What will you be doing this weekend then?' Ben asked and immediately thought about cutting out his tongue.

'Well… Ben… I don't really know. Have you any plans for me?' She purposely teased him.

Seeing him turn all red again, she said: 'Sorry Ben, I can't seem to stop myself teasing you.' She patted him on the thigh, which sent flushes of blood through Ben's already pumping veins. 'Tomorrow I'll arrange to meet your suspended colleague… Gail Stewart..?'

'Stephens,' Ben corrected her immediately, relieved that the conversation was back on police matters again.

'So it was, Stephens. Well, the plan is that Stephens is going to tell me how one is introduced to this Maeve cult and then on Sunday I will hopefully be able to get in contact with the cult and in some way get approval to attend their ritual on Tuesday.'

'Right.' Ben had decided to say no more than necessary from now on. He didn't want to make a complete fool of himself.

'As for my more private plans, I'll spend that weekend at my parents' and they will without doubt fuss over me and for the twenty thousand and umpteenth time tell me what a terrible and dangerous and stupid and un-feminine career choice I've made… and "couldn't I just settle down with a nice husband and have some lovely children" just as my two older sisters have done.' She sighed as she spoke the last words, before turning on her beaming smile again: 'And that's why I'd love to go out for drinks tomorrow night… if you're free, of course?'

Ben thought she perhaps put a bit more meaning into the word "free" than just whether he had the hours at his disposal. Carefully he answered: 'Yes, drinks would be good. Pick you up at…?'

'Great!' She smiled heartily towards him. 'I just can't be in with the oldies all weekend. I would choke. They are so nice and caring, but as I said, so old-fashioned that Queen Victoria could still be on the throne.'

Ben had stopped the car outside a semi-detached house in the northern part of the town and as Aubrey stepped out she handed him his card. 'Text me your phone number and I'll give you a call tomorrow afternoon, alright?'

'Yes, ma'a…' At the look of Aubrey playfully clenching her fist, Ben cleared his throat. 'Aubrey, it'll be a pleasure. Have a nice evening with the parents and see you tomorrow.'

As Ben drove away Aubrey Brierly looked after the disappearing car. _'What a nice man,' _she thought. With a small sigh she turned around and went into the house and her parents' overwhelming love, affection… and advice about how to live her life…

**Saturday**

Gail almost panicked when she heard the knock on the door. It was late morning and she had just finished cleaning up after her second session of vomiting… and the day had only just started.

When she opened the door she found herself face-to-face with a very nice-looking woman who introduced herself as Inspector Aubrey Brierly. She asked the inspector in and to sit down in her small living-room.

'Tea?' Gail asked to buy herself a few minutes more to get in shape for this… interview was perhaps the right word… As she stepped into the kitchen and put the kettle on she tried to repress her instinctive feeling of dislike for the female colleague. She knew in her heart that her suspension was a mild reprimand, but this woman was here to take her place in the investigation and Gail didn't like that at all.

When tea was served Inspector Brierly began questioning her about the cult and after only a few minutes Gail had completely forgotten her initial negative attitude. Inspector Aubrey Brierly was utterly charming and her questions were put in a way that made Gail feel she was still contributing to the case.

Gail went out into the kitchen for some more tea and from the kitchen door she took the opportunity to observe Aubrey, as the inspector demanded to be called. Of course she was charming. She had to be. She was a professional at infiltrating closed sects, she had to be an expert in gaining confidence. But her charming manners didn't ring false. She seemed genuinely interested in other people.

She looked stunning as well. Beautiful in a healthy kind of way. Like one of those plus size models Ben used to appreciate when he "accidentally" paged through a women's magazine. Gail had no doubt Ben would find Inspector Aubrey Brierly extremely attractive.

When she followed the inspector to the door she suddenly got a hug and a "take care". Gail almost burst into tears at this unexpected sign of caring kindness and when the door closed behind Aubrey she felt lonelier than ever. She studied herself in the mirror. She looked dreadful. The slim well-trained body she'd been so proud of now looked skinny. Her shoulders slouched and the look in her eyes made no-one happy, least of all herself.

* * *

Cathy pulled the door of the _Age UK _charity shop to and locked it with a heavy heart. Almost automatically she took her mobile from her jeans pocket and pressed a button. Still nothing from Peter. She couldn't understand it. She walked towards her old rusty bicycle. She mounted the bike, but before setting off she composed another message. _"Please, please, please," _she wrote and then thought for a moment. She added _"PLEASE get in touch. I want you so much. Surely we can talk? Cathy"_. She added _"xxx" _and sent it off.

She cycled the mile and a half to Peartree Farm thinking about Peter. The more she thought about Peter the less she could understand him. It had been so good, back there in the woods, and Peter had certainly seemed to enjoy it too. Peter was _hers_, and she intended to keep him. All those messages she had sent and no reply... anger welled up inside her when she thought how he must have refused to answer. How _dare _he?

Peartree Farm had two entrances; the main entrance to the farmhouse, now occupied by a middle-aged couple with a disabled child that Cathy tried to avoid seeing, and a side entrance that led only to a tumble-down barn which had become derelict. This, however, was Cathy's home, though all she had in it was a sleeping bag on top of a groundsheet, plus a rusty Prima gas stove and a few basic small items of furniture which she had abstracted from the charity shop. She did have to buy a cylinder of gas every so often, and her ablutions were carried out near an old but still working standpipe which she had found at the back of the farm, but living here was remarkably cheap, particularly as she had no rent to worry about. One of the windows was missing a pane of glass, which meant that swallows had taken to nesting on a ledge high up in the barn. Cathy had got used to the swallows, and even to the enormous spiders that occasionally ran across the floor, but she had never got used to the field-mice, which put in an appearance every now and again.

Cathy pushed open the heavy wooden door and went to light the candle which was her only source of light. She left the door open, as the sun was still high in the sky, and threw herself down on the rickety Windsor chair. Peter, Peter, Peter. It was all she could think about. The anger she had felt earlier had subsided and she became tearful. What was he thinking? How _could _he? She looked at her mobile phone again. Still nothing. One thing was for certain, Tuesday in Marsh Wood she would meet him again, he would explain everything, and they would have fantastic sex. It would be as it was before. Suddenly the future looked brighter.

There was a mewing sound at the door, where Sammy, the farm cat, was holding a field-mouse in its jaws. The mouse was not quite dead and was making little squeaking sounds. Sammy approached Cathy and dropped the moribund creature at her feet as if it was a gift. Disgusted, Cathy went over to the little second-hand cabinet which she had also abstracted from the charity shop and looked in the cupboard, where she kept a variety of tools and implements, some of them having been left in the barn by the previous owner of the farm. A heavy hammer was just the job... in a moment she had killed the mouse by smashing in its skull. Sammy obligingly removed the remains outside.

She sat on the Windsor chair again and started tapping out another message to Peter.

* * *

When Ben had changed his mind about the shirt he was going to wear for the fifth time, he decided this one would have to do. Otherwise he would be late as he was to meet Aubrey in "The Bow & Arrow" within twenty minutes. The evening was chilly as he walked the few blocks down to the pub.

He bought a lager and found a table in a nice quiet corner. Aubrey showed up right on time and took off her coat and made herself comfortable as Ben went to get her G&T. Back at the table he asked her about the meeting with Gail. Aubrey began to tell him.

There were two ways to get into the cult. One was to turn up at a ritual meeting together with a member. If this way was chosen the new member could wear a mask and never reveal his or her identity. However, there was an initiation rite to be fulfilled to demonstrate the new member's sincere belief in the worship of Maeve. The new member had to have sex in front of the entire cult community with a member picked by "Maeve", also known as Joan Osbourne.

The other way was to pay a visit to Joan Osbourne in advance together with a member or by recommendation from a member. Choosing this option you were interviewed by Joan Osbourne and you couldn't wear a mask. You had to show your face to her. If she was satisfied you were sincere, you were approved to attend the ritual.

'Right,' said Ben, 'and...?'

'I'll most definitely chose option number two,' Aubrey smiled at him, 'even if I understand that my mission includes some nude dancing, which I have no problem with, I draw the line at having public sex with a complete stranger in the line of duty, so I'll pay a visit to Miss Osbourne tomorrow.'

The thoughts were bouncing around in Ben's head. He'd just realised that if he was to survey the ritual on Tuesday he was going to witness Aubrey dancing in the nude. Silently he prayed to the God he didn't believe in that he would be the one… Of course he would be the one, he was the SIO and if he was ever going to pull rank, this time would be it.

'Ben… Ben… Where are you?' Aubrey was trying to catch his attention and when he realised and was brought back to earth he blushed at his own thoughts. 'What were you thinking about?' she asked him, but gave him another fantastic smile that told him she might well know the answer.

'Sorry. A refill?' Ben asked as he rose and gave her no option to object.

When Ben had sat down again the band of the evening began to play and to make itself heard. Aubrey moved over to the sofa on Ben's side of the table. She told him that she would refer to being a friend of "Bedelia", Stephens' cult name, and that Gail had promised to give Joan Osbourne a call in advance.

Ben and Aubrey kept on chatting about this and that and Aubrey recounted some very funny stories about colleagues from her previous service in Midsomer. Ben could feel her warm thigh pressing against his and she was sitting very close, even though they weren't discussing secret police matters any more.

Into their fourth round of drinks they both talked a lot and laughed a lot, relaxed by the effect of the alcohol. Their legs were still pressed tight together and Ben was wrestling in his mind as to whether he should make a move. She was so lovely, but she was also a senior officer. He didn't get to make his mind up before Aubrey put her hand over his and squeezed it gently. She looked intensely into his eyes and pouted her beautiful lips a little as if she was about to say something.

Ben held her gaze and tried not to look down at her generous décolletage, showing the cleft between the breasts that nature had so generously equipped her with. Her mouth opened and she leaned forward to speak when her mobile phone rang. It took Aubrey a second to realise it was her phone, but she withdrew just enough to get it out of her handbag. She looked at the display and then turned to Ben: 'I'm so sorry, Ben, but I have to take this.'

'Sure,' Ben said as he watched her rise from the couch and head for the door. He didn't mean to pry but he couldn't help overhearing "I told you I was here for the weekend… No, you know damn well I can't just barge off and come over to you right now…"

She walked outside, still talking on her mobile, having left a warm spot on the sofa behind her. Ben couldn't resist stroking it with his hand. He sighed. It had been such a magic moment. What had she intended to say? Now the moment was lost. Would they be able to pick up where they had left off? Ben hoped so.

When he had waited for more than thirty minutes a text came through. "Sorry Ben. A call at the wrong time by the wrong person. On my way home now in a taxi. Again I'm sorry. See you tomorrow? Aubrey"

Wrong time, wrong person. Could it be anything but a boyfriend? Ben felt so disappointed, but texted a reply "No worries. See you tomorrow. Take care. Ben". Before he pressed send, he erased "take care". Best to keep this relationship on a professional level.

**Sunday**

Though Aubrey had been prepared for what to expect, she couldn't help smiling as she walked up to Joan Osbourne's house. The garden installations were hilarious to Aubrey's eyes.

She had almost reached the house when she heard a sound from the left and halted. By one of the fountains stood a bronzed "Adonis". The young man was wearing nothing more than a pair of very small bathing trunks, revealing more than they sheltered. Aubrey had once in a film heard the expression "banana hammock". She smiled at the thought as she established that this was most certainly a hammock of such a kind. The tanned man's muscles played in the sunlight and Aubrey had no doubt that he was very aware of her presence, even though he pretended not to be. He gave her "a show" of his assets.

When he turned his back at her and leaned forward to pick something out of the water Aubrey exploded in a loud giggle. His minute bathing trunks were nothing more than a G-string for men and Aubrey couldn't stop herself laughing. She wasn't impressed by the young man's sex appeal in the first place, but this really killed what might have remained of it.

Aubrey's reaction was apparently not what the semi-nude gardener had expected, so with a loud snort he left the scene.

As she rang the doorbell she tried to collect her thoughts and prepare herself. Ben had told her how Miss Osbourne had met them at their visit and Aubrey didn't want to lose control. She'd have to make a sincere impression on Joan Osbourne if she was to be accepted into the cult. Gail had told Aubrey that Joan was very serious in her belief of the ancient gods.

It didn't matter how prepared Aubrey thought she was; when Joan Osbourne opened the door Aubrey had to take a deep breath. This stunning woman didn't have single thread on her body. The nipples on her large firm breasts were pointing straight at Aubrey, who felt almost hypnotised, until she broke the spell "freed herself". She was shown into the large sitting room where Joan Osbourne's interview with Aubrey started.

Barnaby and Jones had decided not to count on Joan Osbourne's co-operation to a request of putting an undercover police officer in at a ritual meeting. She seemed to trust her congregation very much and seemed to keep no secrets from the other members of the cult.

Stephens had told Aubrey what literature to study and how to behave to win Joan Osbourne's approval and she had also phoned Joan, as "Bedelia", to give her friend, "Joanna Burt", her warmest recommendations.

That was why Joan Osbourne now, with a smile, put her hands down on her naked thighs and said to Aubrey: 'Dear Joanna, or "Branwen" as you will be called, I think you will be a new treasure in our little community. You're most welcome to join us.'

Aubrey let out a sigh of relief. She had been well prepared, but you never knew. What she wasn't prepared for was what Joan Osbourne did next. Joan Osbourne rose from the sofa and suddenly sat down next to Aubrey. Her hand landed rather high up on Aubrey's thigh and her face was so close to Aubrey's that she could feel Joan's breath on her cheek. 'As a matter of fact, Joanna, you're most welcome to join me now… at once…' Joan Osbourne whispered the words as she looked at Aubrey with a glassy gaze.

The meaning of the words could not be misunderstood and to her own great surprise Aubrey actually considered the thought for a moment or two. If she was ever going to cross that line and "play the other side of the field" this would be it. Joan Osbourne was breath-takingly beautiful and Aubrey couldn't help being affected and attracted by her erotic aura. However, the thought of joining Joan was gone almost as fast as it had occurred and with a dry mouth she answered: 'Sorry Joan, I'm boringly straight.'

Joan Osbourne immediately, but gently, removed her hand from Aubrey's thigh. She smiled at Aubrey. 'That's perfectly alright! You can't be what Nature and Maeve didn't intend you to be.'

As they parted at the door Joan gave Aubrey's cheek a stroke and said: 'The men on Tuesday, and a pair of the women, will be all over you, you realise that, don't you? You're so attractive. But you decide how far you're prepared to go. Just give them a sign and they'll back off. They know the rules.'

Aubrey just looked at Joan's beautiful eyes and replied: 'See you Tuesday then.' On her way down the stairs the young gardener tried to avoid making eye-contact with her. His feelings were obviously very hurt by being laughed at earlier. But he had to pass her when Joan Osbourne called out to him, from behind Aubrey's back: 'Nuada, come in quickly. I need you.'

Aubrey smiled. "Nuada" couldn't be his real name any more than "Branwen" was hers, but "Nuada" was obviously in for a treat from "Maeve".

**To be continued…**


	6. Chapter 6

**Monday**

'Do-o-nald, who is it?' Ben could hear "Mrs Donald Walker's" squeaky voice in the background.

'Please, quick, what do you want?' Donald Walker whispered into the phone and Ben could sense his agony. 'Be fast, she'll kill me!'

Ben thought he'd better not risk involving Walker in the reason for his call, so he quickly replied: 'Meet me at the parking space at the south end of Marsh Wood at noon.'

'But how am I…?' Donald tried to answer when he was interrupted by another 'Who is it Donald?' Mrs Walker was obviously not used to being left out of conversations even if they were over the phone.

'Just some salesman, darling,' Donald half-shouted back but in his most soothing voice, before he turned to whisper again: 'But how am I supposed to leave without getting Magda suspicious?'

'That's your problem, Mr Walker,' Ben answered in a cold tone. 'Be there unless you want me to give Magda a call…' Ben could now here footsteps getting closer. They were without doubt Magda's.

'No thank you, we don't want to change our telephone subscription,' Donald Walker ended the call hastily.

Ben smiled, he expected to find Walker at the parking space at the exact time. Then they would take a walk and Walker would show him the place for tomorrow's Maeve ritual. It would be good to see it in daylight. He would be able to find a good surveillance spot and also decide on a reassembly point with Aubrey after the ritual.

* * *

Barnaby looked at Jones and Aubrey sitting opposite him at the table in the incident room. Something had obviously happened between them during the weekend. They both made their best effort to act normally, while at the same time doing whatever they could to avoid looking at each other, but at the same moment as one of them looked away the other one gave longing glances.

John frowned and shook his head. He didn't have time for this now. They had to move forward.

'All set for tomorrow then?' John Barnaby addressed his question to both Ben and Aubrey.

Ben spoke first: 'Yes, I've had a walk in Marsh Wood with our "birdwatcher", so now I know the exact spot where the ritual will take place.' Ben unfolded a large map on the table and showed the others the locations he had chosen for Aubrey to enter the woods, his surveillance spot and where they should meet afterwards. Both Barnaby and Aubrey studied the map with great interest and asked complementary questions.

'It's one thing to see it on a map and in daylight, but in the dark…' Aubrey looked hesitant.

'We'll go there tomorrow morning,' said Ben, 'that'll give you a chance to get orientated with the surroundings.'

'Good,' said both Aubrey and Barnaby.

Barnaby continued: 'And you, Aubrey, how was your meeting with the fair Miss Osbourne?'

'Different,' Aubrey stated. 'I mean, I've infiltrated some strange cults before in my day, but this one… Let's call it a mixture of the old druids and the free love of the 60's. But they seem harmless enough. In my opinion it's really all about the sex, even though Joan Osbourne seems to have some queer faith in those old gods.'

'So you're in?'

'I most definitely am, John.' When Aubrey answered she thought about the invitation she'd got before she left the Osbourne house, but she didn't care to mention it. She knew what the thought of two naked women together did to men's heads. 'I've even got a Celtic name already… Branwen.' She smiled as she tried the Gaelic pronunciation.

Barnaby flinched at being called by his first name. He gave Aubrey a stare but she didn't turn her eyes away. 'So you're not worried about your safety, Inspector?' He deliberately used her title.

'No, John, I'm not,' Aubrey used his first name again deliberately. 'Besides, Ben will be there keeping an eye on things, won't you?' She looked towards Ben, who could only hum at the thought.

Barnaby frowned, inside it was about Aubrey's obvious negligence of rank, but he gave up. This wasn't the time to pick a fight about such trivialities, so instead he gave the impression of another concern: 'And to attend this meeting stark naked doesn't bother you?'

'Not at all,' answered Aubrey without a sign of hesitation. 'But what I wonder is what you want to get out of it all? What am I supposed to do?'

'Well, we don't have much to go on in the search for our tattooed killer. We have nothing to go on, to be perfectly honest, so what we want you to do is to get acquainted with the cult members. See if you can get some of them to talk. Perhaps they'll remember former members or whatever that might slip from their tongues...'

'Hmm, seems like a long shot,' Aubrey declared frankly.

'Yes, we know,' Ben hurried to break in, because now he was worried that the London inspector's frankness would irritate the DCI. 'But it seems our only option at the moment or do you have a better idea?' He chose to challenge Aubrey, still a bit hurt at being left behind on the Saturday evening.

'No, certainly not,' Aubrey smiled at them both, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to question your ideas. I just wanted to make sure what you expect of me, so there won't be any misunderstandings or disappointment about the outcome… if it's meagre…'.

'_What a smile,' _thought Ben and could feel his heart melt away again, just as it had done the other night.

'Right then, get on with your preparations,' said John, 'I'll follow up on another lead that I've thought of.'

'What's that, sir?' Jones didn't dare to take the same liberties as Aubrey.

'The plate. I'll check on some other charity shops to see if any stolen goods can be found elsewhere.'

* * *

Aubrey sighed as she started the film of Eric Singer's murder all over again. There had to be something, she thought, even though she knew Gail had looked through the film numerous times. But Gail's mind had been preoccupied for obvious reasons. Perhaps she had missed something? The film filled her with horror but there was no other way to analyse it than to watch it through… again.

She stopped the film frequently and froze the picture. She zoomed in and searched for clues, but there was nothing. When she came to the end of it, she could see the horror in poor Eric Singer's eyes just before the chair was pushed and he fell to meet his death. She ran over the scene again. There it was… There was something odd about it.

She focused on Eric's face and enlarged the picture as much as she could without getting it blurry. When she was satisfied she looked through the part again frame by frame.

'Getting anywhere?' Ben's voice came from behind her.

Aubrey turned around. 'Ben, come and have a look at this.'

She repeated the procedure. It took several minutes to go through all the pictures, but once they were done she asked: 'Tell me what you see.'

Ben was silent for a moment before he spoke. 'It looks like his face is changing in the last second…' Ben spoke slowly. 'It's almost… it's really hard to tell… but it strikes me he looks surprised and almost as if he recognises the murderer…'

'Exactly what I thought,' Aubrey was eager now, 'and if that's the case…'

'He knew his murderer,' Ben filled in.

'Which would spoil the theory that he was the victim of disturbing an unknown burglar!' Aubrey sounded almost triumphant.

Ben thought for a while before answering, 'Not necessarily; he could've interrupted a burglar that turned out to be someone he knew. Anyway, I'd better inform Barnaby at once.' Ben hurried away to his office.

'_Bugger,' _Aubrey thought. She had wanted to explain to Ben what had happened the other night. It would have to wait till tomorrow.

* * *

John Barnaby surveyed the information that Jones had helpfully collated in three neat piles on his desk. First, there was the detailed map of Midsomer. Being new to the area, John was unfamiliar with many of the little villages in the county, and it was surprising how many of them there were, considering how small Midsomer was. Second, there was the list of silver artefacts reported as being missing by the various churches, and last there was a list of all the charity shops in the county, together with their addresses. Ben had groaned when asked to assemble this list, as there were quite a number of charity shops; however, John had conceded that it was unnecessary to include those located in Causton, as all the churches reporting stolen property were in one or other of the various villages. John had decided to exclude Causton from his investigations, and that reduced the number of charity shops considerably.

By mid-afternoon he had sketched out a route. Of course, the SatNav in his Volvo would help with the directions, but he wanted to have a plan of action. He would drive up to Midsomer Mere, and visit the Mind shop there, and then proceed in an anticlockwise direction, taking in Midsomer Worthy, Fletcher's Cross, Midsomer Parva and Midsomer Wellow, Goodman's Land, Monks Barton, Martyr Warren, Aspern Tallow and Midsomer Mallow, all of which boasted charity shops of one description or another, before returning to Causton by way of Broughton. At least, that was the plan.

Midsomer Mere was of particular interest to John, as the vicar of St Martin's had reported a valuable 18th Century ciborium as missing only a couple of weeks ago. He found the Mind charity shop with no trouble at all, standing as it did next to Lol Tanner's betting shop on the green. He looked in the shop window. Amid an extensive display of literature on helping people suffering mental disorders, in pride of place was a large, intricately-worked silver cup with a lid. A ciborium, Barnaby thought, remembering the description given him by the vicar. He pushed open the door.

'Can I help you?' The young woman behind the counter had thin bleached hair, prominent teeth and bulging eyes, and wore a long shaggy maroon-coloured cardigan with large buttons. She smiled, which made her teeth protrude even more.

'That… thing… in the window,' began John.

'Oh, you mean the cup! Yes, isn't it lovely!' She smiled even more, and Barnaby thought he could smell undigested garlic.

'Yes, it is,' said John, drawing out his warrant card. 'May I ask how you got it?'

'_Well,_' said the young woman, rolling her bulging eyes heavenwards, which was a bit disconcerting, 'would you believe it?'

'Probably,' said John, presenting his card. 'I am Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby of Causton C.I.D.'

'You never!' said the young woman, not at all discomfited by this piece of information, 'I'm Sandra, by the way. Pleased to meet you,' and she held out her hand and shook the inspector's hand warmly. By this time John had formed the definite impression that Sandra must in the recent past have benefited from the services of the Mind charity. 'The things people do!'

'What do they do, exactly?' asked Barnaby.

'They only went and left it outside!' said Sandra, her voice rising to a shriek. 'In a black bin-liner, wrapped up in some old clothes!' Here Sandra burst into a loud cackle of laughter.

'Well, Sandra, I'm sorry to have to tell you that that cup has been reported as stolen.'

'You don't say!' said Sandra in a whisper, her bulging eyes now rolling from side to side.

'And, as I am a policeman, I am going to have to take it away.'

'Oh!' said Sandra, looking very disappointed.

'How much were you selling it for?'

'Five quid,' said Sandra sadly. 'I know it's a lot, but it _is _a very pretty cup, and I'm sure somebody would give us that for it.'

'I expect they would,' said Barnaby, getting out his wallet. 'Why don't you take ten pounds from me and give it to the charity?' John was aware that he was unnecessarily giving away his own money, but he suddenly felt sorry for Sandra and people like her.

'Oh, _thank you_, Mr Inspector!' said Sandra, her bulging eyes now gleaming, 'you've made my day!'

_And I probably have too_, thought John as he left the shop, ciborium in hand.

…...

Neither the British Heart Foundation in Midsomer Worthy nor Scope in Fletcher's Cross had had silver articles on display and the assistants had no knowledge of any similar items deposited with them, but the helpful youth at the Cats Protection League in Midsomer Parva could distinctly remember selling a pair of silver candlesticks which had been left outside their door in a black bin-liner. He admitted it was odd that silver items should be left with them (and he seemed to be sure that they were silver, though only silver plate, he thought), but he explained it by saying that there were a lot of extremely wealthy residents in Midsomer and some of them were known to be eccentric. Barnaby ticked these off as having been stolen from the church in Dunstan.

The Tinnitus Association Charity at Midsomer Wellow had a small set of replica silver bells for sale, and Barnaby was able to identify these as coming from the collection of the local church, which had won a notorious bell-ringing competition some years previously. These he removed without compensating the charity.

The remaining villages on Barnaby's list produced a silver cross, three communion cups, a flagon, a paten, a salver and two chalices. All had been left outside the various charity shops in black bin-liners, usually wrapped in old clothes. John did not arrive back in Causton until early evening, and as he was ravenously hungry he wolfed down two pastrami on rye sandwiches he had bought on his way home, washed down with some hot tea, without pausing.

He had not finished the second sandwich when the mobile lying on his kitchen table rang. 'Barnaby,' he said indistinctly.

'Sir!' Ben's voice was excited.

'It'd better be good,' said John between mouthfuls.

'It is, sir! Aubrey and I…'

'Aubrey?'

'I mean Inspector Brierly, sir. Inspector Brierly and I have been going through the film of the murder again, frame by frame.'

'And?' John swallowed the last mouthful of pastrami and rye and took a swig of tea.

'It looks like Eric Singer recognized his murderer. There's a look on his face… and that would mean the murderer couldn't be just any old burglar.'

'As I thought,' said John.

'_You _thought, sir?' Ben sounded put out.

'The silver, Jones. It's turned up all over the place. Always left outside a charity shop in a black bin-liner.'

'Which would mean…'

'Exactly. It can't be a run-of-the-mill burglar. How many burglars distribute their loot to charity?'

There was a pause while Ben thought hard. 'It must mean… that whoever stole those things… didn't _think _they were a burglar.'

'Somebody known to Eric Singer who hated the Church perhaps? Who thought that redistributing these artefacts was an act of goodness, even, in a perverted sort of way?'

'Anyway, who didn't think of themselves as a burglar. But who? Who knew Eric Singer… and hated the Church?'

'That's what we must find out,' said Barnaby.

**Tuesday**

The sun cast a bright light over Marsh Wood as Ben and Aubrey made their way to the place for this evening's upcoming ritual. It was a warm and lovely day and even if Aubrey was wearing only a thin blouse and shorts she felt sticky from the slow walking.

She looked sideways at Ben as he held a branch aside so that they could get through the undergrowth. 'Ben…'

'Ahum,' Ben's focus was all on the path in front of them.

'I'm so sorry about the other night.' Aubrey swallowed hard. 'It's just that… I'm in this relationship that seems to…'

'It's none of my business!' Ben interrupted in a harsh voice. He softened: 'But apology accepted.' He gave Aubrey a smile.

'But I want to explain…'

'Please, Aubrey. I'm not sure I want you to and you definitely don't owe me any explanations. We're just colleagues, right?' Ben tried to sound determined but not unfriendly at the same time. He had to restrain his feelings, which told him to take the beautiful woman by his side in his arms and to bury his face in her chestnut curls.

Aubrey looked at him. She could see in his kind face that he was struggling to keep in control and decided not to make it any worse for him. She only had herself to blame. She would've been an easy target if he had laid her down in the soft warm grass to let passion take over, but she had spoiled her chances.

They walked on in silence until they got to the ritual area. It was a beautiful glade, surrounded by the green trees with the sun glittering through the leaves, giving the place an almost magical light. Ben showed her his surveillance post and the path he had chosen for her to enter and leave the ritual. They went through all the details very thoroughly. Not that either of them believed Aubrey would be in any danger, but you could never know and better safe than sorry.

The shop talk made them feel good and eased the tense atmosphere between them. As they walked back they both laughed out loud when Ben described how disappointed Donald Walker had been when Ben had told him that he couldn't watch this week's ritual. Walker had even tried to appeal and had promised to be as good as invisible and quiet as a mouse. It was obvious that the rituals were the only bright thing in Donald Walker's miserable life.

* * *

The phone on George Bullard's office desk kept on ringing and when David Spitz, or Dave as he preferred to be called (it sounded somewhat cooler), passed the office he went in and answered: 'Dr Bullard's office, Dave speaking.'

He looked around. 'No, I can't see him anywhere… hold on a minute and I'll go and check.' He put the receiver down on the table and went out through the corridor to the locker room. There he could see the back of Bullard as he was leaving. Dave shouted 'Dr Bullard!' but it was too late. The door had already closed behind the stressed doctor, who was late for a dinner party with friends.

Dave trudged back into Bullard's office and picked the receiver up again. 'Ullo, still there...? Right, you've just missed him. Can I take a message?' Dave found a pen and a post-it note and jotted down the message. 'Unh-hunh. Right. OK. I'll tell him. Goodbye.'

He ended the call, tore off the note from the pad and looked up just in time to see the voluptuous Samantha Fender passing the office door. He swallowed hard and set off after her. This time he wouldn't take no for an answer. Even though Samantha always treated him kindly, sitting behind her reception desk or in the tea-break room, she always did it with a maternal smile and never took him seriously.

Dave didn't care that she was old enough to be his mother, or at least his much older sister. In fact she was the same age as his much older sister. He loved her and his young loins ached from desire for her mature and generous body. Now he was going to ask her out for the umpteenth time and he would do it in a very mature and casual way. She wouldn't be able to resist. He had practised a lot at home in front of the mirror. Once he had got her out on a date she would see that he wasn't just a boy, he was a man… and then everything would change…

'Samantha,' he called out while hurrying after her down the corridor.

* * *

It was beginning to get dark as Aubrey waited to be picked up by Jones outside her parents' house. The heat of the day had remained throughout the evening and the air was very warm and humid. Aubrey had chosen a thin summer dress without sleeves because, even if she was soon to be naked, she couldn't think of putting on anything warmer. She didn't bother putting on a bra or panties. It would only mean more clothes to maybe loose in the darkness of the wood. She thought about the ritual she was going to. Being naked didn't bother her at all, in fact she enjoyed being naked and had a couple of times in her adult life gone to nudist beaches. Thank God her mother didn't know.

And as for the ritual itself she trusted in Joan Osbourne's words that she could set the pace herself. If someone tried to touch her it was up to her to allow it and when she didn't want to go any further they would respect it. Aubrey pondered a while over how far she would have to go to get the contact she needed with other members. To get them so friendly with her that they would perhaps open up and answer the questions she had carefully planned to slip into any conversation. Maybe she would have to accept it if someone fondled her breasts, and she was prepared for that, but there she would draw the line. Nothing more would be allowed to happen. Mostly because, even if she enjoyed nudity and the feeling of freedom it gave, she wasn't at all into swingers' sex, but partially it was also because she knew Ben would be watching it all through his night vision goggles.

When Ben saw her coming out of the house and walking towards his car he almost lost his breath. She was so utterly beautiful in her summer dress… and sexy… From the movements of her heavy bosom he understood she had nothing under the dress. He took a deep breath and gave her an appreciative smile as she stepped into his car and they drove off.

They parked the car hidden from the road behind some large bushes, in the place where Donald Walker used to hide his car. They had plenty of time so they just sat in the car with the side windows down, trying to catch something of the cooling evening breeze. Only there was nothing cooling in the air tonight. Instead the humidity in the air seemed to increase, making Aubrey's thin dress and Ben's linen shirt seem plastered to their bodies.

They talked about everything and nothing until it was time for Ben to walk to his position and for Aubrey to go to the ritual. Suddenly Ben couldn't stop an impulse. He put his left hand over Aubrey's right hand, resting on her thigh, looked her in the eyes and said: 'Are you sure about this Aubrey?'

Aubrey could see the honest concern in his gaze and calmed him: 'There's nothing to worry about, Ben. I'll be fine and you'll be watching over me, won't you?'

'Yes, but…'

'Besides, Ben, you know I'll be dancing only for you,' she gave him a teasing smile to take his mind off any worries.

Jones blushed and gave her a sheepish smile back.

* * *

When she had only a short distance left to the glade, Aubrey slipped out of her dress and hung it on the branch of a tree. She put on her mask, which was a scarlet bandana with holes for the eyes, and walked the remaining steps nude in the dark. It was lucky the fire was already casting its flames towards the dark night sky, guiding her steps.

As she entered the open space and came in to the light from the fire a dozen pairs of eyes turned to look at her. A new member! This was something that didn't happen often enough. Aubrey tried not to get scared, but the feeling of only seeing glittering eyes with the faces hidden behind masks was slightly frightening. She did what Joan had told her to do, which was to walk straight up to Joan and wait beside her for the introduction.

Joan Osbourne's unmasked face lit up when she saw Aubrey coming and she walked towards her and gave her a long warm hug. When they split apart again Aubrey couldn't help admiring Joan's fantastic body. Such a body many women would kill for and it could definitely get men to kill each other.

Joan took a step up onto a flat stone and held out her arms in a gesture to silence and gather the cult members around her and Aubrey. 'Human beings of flesh and passion,' she addressed the crowd, 'tonight we have a new member, "Branwen"; admire her beauty and welcome her as one of us.' She paused. 'Let us pray to praise her presence.'

The other members lowered their heads as Joan started to speak in a language Aubrey thought had to be Gaelic. During the prayer she carefully looked around and observed the other members. They came in all shapes and ages. She saw a young girl and a boy that could be teenagers or in their early twenties, but she also saw a woman that had to be way past her mother's age, Aubrey guessed somewhere between 60 and 70.

When Joan's last words of the prayer faded away, she gave the sign to the two men with drums. The dancing began in the light of the fire…

* * *

Cathy moved carefully during the dance to get closer to Peter. He had been keeping his distance from her so far. Peter was now dancing close to the new woman and Cathy could feel her hatred towards this intruder course through her mind. He had his back towards Cathy, but as soon as he caught a glimpse of her he moved further away and began dancing with a middle aged couple. _'Why is he avoiding me?' _Cathy thought as she carefully tried to manoeuvre closer to him again.

Up on the hillock where he was lying in the grass, Ben had a perfect view of the glade. He was all sweaty from the evening heat, but also from the fact the three of the most beautiful women he had ever set eyes on were dancing stark naked in front of him. He admired the astonishing beauty of Joan Osbourne as she moved in rhythm with the drumming. He was taken by the fresh youth of the girl he had easily identified as Cathy from the charity shop, but most of all his eyes were on Aubrey. The feelings he felt inside when his gaze followed her around couldn't be expressed in words. He forced himself to study some of the other dancers so as not to lose focus. He had to remember what he was here for.

Aubrey felt strangely relieved and even excited as she joined the dancing. The sweaty dancing released adrenaline and hormones and she could easily understand how this could be addictive. After a while she found herself dancing next to a tall, well-built man somewhere in his late forties or early fifties. He was quite attractive, though she couldn't see his face, and he seemed to enjoy dancing next to her. When she thought she had established enough contact, Aubrey said something about having to rest for a while and went to sit down on a fallen tree-trunk at the edge of the glade. Her calculation proved right. The man followed her and sat down next to her.

'Quite a heavy exercise, all this dancing,' said Aubrey quite loud so as to be heard over the drumming.

'Oh yes,' answered the man, 'this gives you a valid excuse to skip both one or two jogging rounds.' He gave her a pleasant smile. 'Welcome by the way, Branwen, I'm Gwydion.'

They began to talk and Aubrey made sure to ask questions about the cult that she thought a newcomer would ask. When she asked about the faith in the old ancient gods, Gwydion gave a loud laugh. 'Sorry, dear, this may sound harsh to you, but I don't think anyone here except for Maeve gives a toss about the old gods. We're only here for one thing…' He left the sentence unfinished.

'Aah, you mean for the sex,' Aubrey filled in.

'Exactly. Me and my wife have been coming here for years and I say…'

'Your wife?' Aubrey sounded a little more surprised than she had intended to.

'Yes, my wife. She's dancing over there.' He pointed in the direction of a rather skinny woman dancing with a young boy.

'But… do you mean...?' Aubrey couldn't help getting curious.

'Yes, we come here together, we have sex with different partners and then we leave together. I'd say it's saved our marriage. Shocked...?' He looked at Aubrey with an open face, or as much of it as could be seen below his mask.

'No… not shocked. Perhaps a bit surprised.'

'Let me tell you,' said Gwydion, who now seemed determined to open his heart, 'we had been married for twenty years and when our daughter moved out we looked at each other and found that we had lost our relationship in the form of passion somewhere along the way.' He paused as if to check if Aubrey had heard enough and felt uncomfortable, but decided to continue. 'Of course we tried to find our own way back to lust and desire, just the two of us, but it just didn't work. And then we found this…' He made a sweeping gesture with his arm towards all the dancers.

'Sex with other people once a week has given our own love-life a whole new meaning and a sparkle I don't think was there even to start with, when we were young.' He gazed with a smile in the direction of his wife, who was now dancing in rather suggestive movements with an older man.

Aubrey asked some more questions and guided the conversation in the direction she intended. 'I see you have a Maeve tattoo on your arm. Does everyone have one?'

'No, not everyone. My wife doesn't have one. Believe or not, she's very shy,' he nodded towards his wife as she was clinging onto the other man. 'She couldn't bear it if any of her friends spotted a tattoo on her in the locker room at the tennis club.'

'But you have one..?'

'Yes, I really wanted to have one. Not that I'm a believer, but this cult has given my life so much I thought it only appropriate as a gesture to the other members. But I don't show it to anyone.'

'Are there any member so dedicated they have visible tattoos? I mean visible to everyone?' Aubrey gave Gwydion what she thought was her most innocent look.

'None that I know of and I've been here for about ten years now.' Gwydion's eyes were looking up and down her tanned legs and he didn't seem to think her question was at all odd.

He placed his big warm hand rather high up on the inside of Aubrey's thigh, looked her in the eyes and said: 'Now, Branwen…'

His hand was smooth and the physical touch was quite nice, but Aubrey felt immediately uncomfortable. She took his wrist and removed his hand gently. She didn't want to offend him and break the trust she had worked on. 'Sorry, Gwydion, but I guess I'm kind of a slow starter… Maybe next week..?' She hoped he would accept her answer to his invitation.

Gwydion smiled at her as he rose from the tree. 'Maybe next week then, Branwen. Already looking forward to it, but take your time, love. There's no rush.' With those words he sloped off towards another dancing woman.

Aubrey stayed sitting for a while, thinking. She was woken from her thoughts by the young woman crying out: 'Peter… Peter… What are you doing? Where are you going?'

* * *

Ben was about to spring up from his hideout when the man talking to Aubrey put his hand on her thigh. He restrained himself just in time to see her remove his hand and the man rising, walking slowly away, casting a last glance towards Aubrey over his shoulder.

Ben couldn't quite hear what was happening down at the fire. The sky had become very overcast and there was a sudden clap of thunder. The roaring sound was accompanied by a great white flash of lightning. But what he could see was that the young man who had been with Cathy at the last ritual now walked hand in hand with Joan Osbourne towards an opening between some bushes. Cathy walked after them waving her hands and shouting something.

Another clap of thunder, louder than before, rang out and Ben looked up at the sky. The flash of lightning was even closer this time and it lit up the black sky, where the stars and the moon were invisible.

* * *

Aubrey made an effort, as she slowly followed Cathy, to avoid looking at her. She smiled towards Gwydion's dancing wife and her dance partner as she passed them. Joan and the young man had disappeared behind the bushes and Cathy seemed fully occupied keeping track of them.

She passed through the opening and arrived just in time to see Cathy walk towards Joan with her right fist held high screaming: 'You vicious bitch, he's mine!' She aimed a strike at the perplexed Joan and Aubrey jumped forwards just in time to get a grip around Cathy's wrist from behind. Joan and the young man were paralysed, but Cathy swung towards Aubrey. Her eyes shot out flames of fury and she struck out with her left hand. The blow hit Aubrey on the cheek and she stumbled backwards, losing her grip of Cathy. Aubrey fought to keep her balance as she could see Cathy turning towards Joan again.

Another bolt of thunder came through the dark night sky and all hell broke loose. The hailstones that came down were large as pebbles and cold. In a second the thunderstorm was raging and the hail hurt as it hit Aubrey's naked skin. The humid warm summer evening was now so cold that her teeth began chattering almost immediately.

Joan and the young man took the opportunity of disruption and ran away from Cathy in different directions. Cathy hesitated about who to follow for a second or two, which was enough for them to disappear into the darkness. She began desperately to run in the young man's direction, shouting out his name.

Aubrey put her hand to her cheek. It hurt a lot and without doubt she'd be black and blue tomorrow. The hail storm had now turned into a heavy cold rain and Aubrey began to run back towards the car as fast as she could in the dark wood. Luckily she had always had a good sense of direction, so she found the path, but the darkness made her stumble and fall several times on the wet ground as she made her way back.

Finally she reached the car. She was freezing, dirty and it hurt, so her happiness when she saw that Ben was already waiting in the car was almost childish. She opened the door and nearly fell down in the seat.

'My God, are you OK?' Ben asked worried. 'Where are your clothes?'

'Di-di-din't ha-ha-have ti-time...' Aubrey was so cold that she stuttered.

Ben lost no time but quickly got out of the car and got a blanket from the boot. He draped the blanket over Aubrey's shoulders and began to rub her back through the blanket. He turned up the heat in the car to maximum. When she looked at him to stutter a 'Thank you' he saw the mark on her face.

'What's happened, Aubrey, who did this?' His voice eas almost breaking with anger.

'Just get us home, will you? I'll tell you on the way' she answered, barely having got her breath back.

* * *

When they reached the first streets of Causton Ben indicated left.

'Where are you going?' Aubrey looked at him.

'I thought this was the way to your parents?' Ben sounded surprised. Had the blow given her concussion?

'I can't go to my parents like this.' Aubrey said this as if it was obvious to anyone. 'My mum would get a fit and my dad would never stop fussing.'

'But…' Ben looked confused.

'I told them I'd be out all night on an assignment and I had planned to spend the night in one of the empty cells. But I really don't feel like going down to the station like this…' She gave Ben a begging glance.

'Right,' said Ben, 'then we'll go to my place. I can crash on the sofa.' As he said this he turned right instead.

'Thanks. I could really do with a long hot shower.' Aubrey smiled at Ben, but as soon as she did so she grimaced with pain. 'But could we please go to the nick first and get my dry clothes? If you can go in and get them for me?'

After the short stop at the station, they slowly drove towards Ben's street.

Ben looked grim. 'That Cathy girl seems to have a short fuse. Hitting a police officer…'

'She didn't know that. But she does seem to have a violent streak…'

Being the middle of the night they managed to get up the two flights of stairs to Ben's place without being noticed. Ben wouldn't have wanted to meet his landlady, living on the ground floor, while he was escorting a naked and bruised woman upstairs clad only in a blanket.

* * *

Ben was sitting on the sofa, waiting with the tea he had made, and had almost dozed off when Aubrey finally came out from the bathroom.

She had a towel wrapped around her and her wet curly hair was hanging down over her shoulders. She sat down close to Ben and leaned against him.

'Oooh, that was good. I must've showered for twenty minutes,' she smiled carefully, to avoid more pain from her cheek that was turning blue, 'but I'm still cold on the inside. What a storm!'

'Yeah,' Ben grunted, feeling her warm body leaning against him. 'I made some tea to get us warm. Want some?' He held up the pot towards a mug in front of her.

'You know what..?' Aubrey put her hand on Ben's arm, holding it there… 'I think I want something else to keep me warm…'

She leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Ben's cheek. He could feel her warm breath in his ear. The blood rushed through his veins and he could think of absolutely nothing else than how much he wanted her, but he held back and didn't respond to the kiss. He had been hurt before and he was determined to keep this on a professional basis. A love affair between a female inspector and a male sergeant couldn't lead anywhere good. And Ben had to admit to himself that he really didn't have the courage to face up to the expected spiteful comments from his male colleagues about being the inspector's "toyboy".

As Aubrey rose from the sofa, the towel "accidentally" slipped and fell to the floor. Ben swallowed and didn't know where to look. Without looking at her he picked the towel up and held it towards her.

'Oh, come on, Ben!' Aubrey giggled. 'It's not like you haven't seen me naked before, is it?' She leaned forward and took his chin in her hand and turned his face up towards hers. She whispered: 'Come, Ben, make me warm will you..?' She slowly turned away from him and walked towards the bedroom.

Ben got to his feet. He admired her beauty from behind for a moment, before he went after her, unbuttoning his shirt and mentally throwing his previous thoughts about "professional basis" in the bin as stupid ideas…

**To be continued…**


	7. Chapter 7

**Wednesday**

The door squeaked as Debbie Milner, who had unlocked it with the spare key hidden on top of the door frame, slowly pushed it open.

'Peter… Peter… It's mum,' she called out in a soft voice. So typical for Peter to oversleep when he knew it was the day she was coming to clean his little bedsit in the centre of Causton, close to the university. She knew he had a lecture he would be late for, because this wasn't the first Wednesday he had overslept.

She entered the single room from the tiny hallway and was about to call out again when she stumbled backwards and fell against the wall behind her.

'Peter…', a loud hissing sob came out of her before she fainted with the vision of her son's blue-ish face in her eyes.

* * *

Ben woke when Aubrey literally jumped out of the bed and grabbed her mobile phone from the coffee table to answer it.

'Yes, of course, right away. What was the address again?' She ended the call and looked at Ben, ready to begin talking, when Ben's mobile, in silent mode, started to buzz on the floor beside the bed.

Ben reached out for it. 'Yes, sir… Right, sir… We – uhh - I'll be there in ten.' Ben cursed himself silently. He had let something slip. With any luck the boss wouldn't have noticed. He looked back at Aubrey and they said almost in chorus: 'There's been another murder!'

Ben was confused. How should he handle this? But Aubrey sat down beside him on the bed, placed a gentle kiss on his lips and solved the problem. 'You jump into your clothes and go first. It's a bit longer from my parents' so I should come after you.'

Ben couldn't resist giving her a long kiss back and letting his hand brush over her naked back before he got up, dressed and left in a hurry.

* * *

'Good Lord,' was Aubrey's first expression when she saw the dead body of Peter Milner hanging from the lamp hook in the ceiling. He was strung up by what looked like a shred of bed linen, tied around his neck, running through the hook and anchored by being tied to the old radiator. His toes just reached the floor and his head was hanging sideways with a blue tongue sticking out of his mouth.

'What do you think, George?' John Barnaby turned to one of the boiler suits.

'Hard to say,' Bullard answered, 'but I do hope he was unconscious when he was strung up.'

'Why's that?' asked Ben.

'Because if he wasn't, he must have struggled with standing on his toes and someone must have been here to prevent him from using his hands. They're not tied, you see? And in that case this "someone" must've watched this poor chap die a slow and painful death by strangulation.' Bullard looked grim.

'Bizarre,' Barnaby stated, 'And if he was unconscious?'

'Then he was strangled as well, but being unconscious he would never have suffered.'

'Right. You can take him away now and please let us know anything you find as soon as possible.' Barnaby turned to Aubrey and Ben: 'And now take a look at this.' He pointed at the wall over the bed.

On the wall there was a cross upside down painted in something smeary red. There was also what looked like a very amateurish attempt to paint the Maeve symbol and across the two symbols was written "Dis Pater" in capital letters.

'Well, this is quite a lead, I'd say,' Ben said taking a step closer for a better view, having already googled "Dis Pater" as the Celtic god of death and the underworld.

'Yes… almost too obvious,' Barnaby looked thoughtful.

Aubrey walked up to the wall putting her face right up against it and sniffing. 'I'd say this is painted with lipstick.'

'Won't argue with you there,' came from one of the other boiler suit dressed forensics.

'Excellent!' John looked satisfied. 'That means it should be full of the owner's DNA and once we catch the murderer, we've got her.'

'You say "her", John. Are you quite sure it is a woman or are you just assuming it because of the lipstick?' Aubrey watched Barnaby's face and saw a shadow pass over it. 'And of course we can hope for DNA, but if the lipstick was brand new and never used…' She left the sentence unfinished waiting for her superior's reaction. When it didn't come, she continued: 'And it would take a rather strong woman to string up a man up like this if he was unconscious and even harder if he wasn't.'

John Barnaby seemed to have shaken off the frustration of getting his idea questioned. 'Of course you're right, Aubrey, but we can definitely not exclude a woman.'

'By no means.'

'Do we know who the victim is?' asked Ben.

'Yep, Peter Milner, a student from Badger's Drift living here to go to Uni. Found by his unfortunate mother, Debbie Milner,' John let out a deep sigh. 'She fainted but managed to make the emergency call once she woke up. But now they've taken her to hospital, full of sedatives, and we're not likely to able to talk to her until tomorrow.'

Aubrey and Ben looked at each other. Aubrey spoke: 'There was a young man at the ritual yesterday called Peter.'

'I thought they all had Celtic aliases?' Barnaby looked puzzled.

'Yes, but this boy was called Peter by a very upset young girl.'

'And that young girl is "our" Cathy, that we interviewed at the charity shop,' Ben interjected.

'It seems we have no time to lose in finding Cathy,' Barnaby looked at them both, 'Ben, you'll come with me to Midsomer Magna and that place where she said she was living…'

'Peartree Farm, sir.'

'Right, and you, Aubrey, will take a uniformed officer with you and go to the charity shop.'

'What charity shop is that, John?'

John looked puzzled for a moment and then remembered that their visit to Cathy had been before Aubrey came into the picture. 'The Age UK charity shop in Midsomer Magna. OK, let's hurry, no time to lose.'

* * *

Barnaby carefully moved an old rusty pram out of the way as he approached the old barn at Peartree Farm. Ben was moving in from the back to cut off any possible attempt at escape from Cathy. Barnaby moved slowly and in silence. There was an open door, but once he got in, it didn't matter how careful he was, the floor boards still creaked under his weight.

Suddenly he saw something moving and he froze. A magnificent cat came towards him and began to sweep between his legs. He gave it a gentle push with his left foot to get rid of it, and the cat gave him a hurt gaze and walked away.

He got closer to a closed wooden door. He put his hand on the door handle and began to press it down as carefully as he could. He managed to do so without a sound and he slowly opened the door. Right across the room he could see Ben's face through the dirty window. The sun was shining brightly in through the window and he waited a second to accustom his eyes to the light.

There she was. Cathy lay sleeping, deep by the look of it, on a mattress on the floor, covered by a ragged blanket. Barnaby carefully sat down on the only chair in the small room, making sure he was in control of the door opening, before he spoke.

'Cathy… Cathy… Wake up!' He raised his voice since he got no reaction from the girl. 'CATHY!'

'Uuuunh, what's up…' she murmured but seemed to immediately fall back to sleep.

'Cathy, it's the police. Wake up!'

Cathy turned around and showed her back to the DCI. 'Let me sleep… Get the fuck out of here…' Again her breath got deeper after a few seconds.

Barnaby rose from the chair and walked over to the sleeping girl. In the corner of his eye he could see Jones appear in the door and with his hand he signalled for Jones to stay there. He bent down and shook Cathy rather hard by the shoulder. 'Cathy Cutler, you're wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Peter Milner.'

The shaking and the words seemed to do the trick. Cathy sat straight up, looking at him. 'What?'

'You heard me,' Barnaby said calmly.

'Yes, but what do you mean? Are you mad?' She gave Barnaby a gaze telling the world that she had definitely already made her mind up, despite her question.

'What I mean is that you are to get dressed and follow us down to the station to answer some questions.'

'You are mad! I don't know any Peter Miller or anything about anyone being murdered,' she breathed heavily after her outburst, 'and I won't follow you to any police station. Just leave me alone, will ya!'

'OK, then we'll just question you here,' Barnaby was still cool as a cucumber.

'Sorry, sir, but we can't.' Ben had picked up Cathy's jeans from the floor and had found her ID-card in the wallet. He held it out so that Barnaby could see. Cathy was only seventeen and a minor.

'Sorry, Miss Cutler, the station it is. Since you're a minor we can't question you without an appropriate adult present. Let's go, shall we?' John gave the girl a satisfied smile.

Cathy gave them both angry looks before she eventually sighed and gave up. Without a sign of shyness she stood up naked, took a step towards Jones and snatched the jeans out of his hand. She put them on while she looked around for her T-shirt.

'I think you have your large bum placed on my T-shirt,' she said angrily to Barnaby.

Barnaby rose, picked the T-shirt up from the chair and gave it to her. His face reddened at the insult about the size of his posterior.

The trip from Midsomer Magna to Causton took place in silence.

* * *

'Why can't you just listen to me?' Cathy looked at Barnaby across the table in the interrogation room. 'I don't know any Peter Miller or Milner or whatever his name is.' She emphasized every word as if she was speaking to someone with really bad hearing.

Barnaby looked back at her. So far they had got nowhere. Cathy refused to admit knowing anything about Peter Milner. He didn't want to play the card about last night's ritual just yet. He wanted Aubrey to be back, since she was the actual eye-witness; besides, they couldn't be a hundred per cent sure that Peter Milner was the "Peter" from the ritual.

The appropriate adult assigned to assist Cathy, a grey-haired woman in her early sixties, was sitting in the background… knitting. She obviously had a rather relaxed, or perhaps very vague, idea as to what her role in the situation was. So far she hadn't said a word after the introductions and didn't seem likely to do so either.

'Ahum,' the solicitor appointed to Cathy cleared his throat, 'I think you've questioned my client quite enough by now. She obviously doesn't know anything about this terrible business and I suggest you either charge her or release her.' He looked at John with a smug smile on his face and continued: 'And I don't think it takes that much thought to decide which course of action is the appropriate one.'

'I am definitely not through with Miss Cutler yet, but we'll take a break and I'll make sure your client gets a cup of tea and some sandwiches. Meanwhile she stays here, in this room, and you are of course welcome to stay with her.' He smiled back at the solicitor, but the smile never reached his eyes.

Outside the room they were met by Aubrey rushing in almost out of her breath.

'I've got news,' she said before leaning forward and resting her palms on her knees, 'good news!'

Barnaby and Jones waited for her to catch her breath and once she had she continued without further encouragement: 'Cathy borrowed Mrs Howell's car late last night. She said it was a family emergency, so Mrs Howell let her have it.' Aubrey fired off a satisfied smile.

'OK, but what use is that to us?' Ben asked, looking confused.

'CCTV,' Barnaby filled in before Aubrey, 'in the blocks where Peter Milner lived there are plenty of cameras. We must order a search of those recordings.'

'Already taken care of.'

'Good, Aubrey, good!' Barnaby's voice implied that he was more than satisfied with Aubrey's actions and Ben couldn't help feeling a slight sting of envy.

Together they went for the canteen to get something to eat and to order refreshments for Cathy. They made no hurry in eating, because as Barnaby put it: 'It'll do her good to stew for an hour or two.'

* * *

When the detectives entered the room again the appropriate adult woman cleared her throat.

'_Here it comes,' _Barnaby thought, _'now it's time for the objections about a minor's rights and bla bla bla'._

To his great surprise the woman looked gently at him and said: 'Excuse me, are there any more biscuits? These Hob-Nobs really are delicious.' She gave him an expectant look and when the answer was no she gave a disappointed sigh and went back to her knitting.

Barnaby could hardly believe what he had just heard, so he had to regain his focus for a moment before he continued the interrogation.

'Now look here, Cathy. We've got you on CCTV. You're driving Mrs Howell's car, the picture of you in the driver's seat is so clear you could use it for your passport, and you're parking the car only a block away from where Peter Milner lived.' Barnaby looked at the girl, who slowly shook her head. 'Isn't it better for all of us if you unburden yourself and come clean about it?'

'Come clean about what?' Cathy gave first Barnaby and then Aubrey an aggressive stare. 'I've got nothing to come clean about.'

'So how do you explain your presence close to the murder scene and why did you lie to Mrs Howell when you borrowed her car?'

Cathy gave a deep sigh. 'I didn't think she'd let me have it if it wasn't an emergency and what I did in Causton is none of your business.'

'You're not helping yourself here, Cathy,' said Barnaby, but looking at her solicitor for some support. The thin grey man just turned his face away and was obviously not going to encourage his client to co-operate in any way.

'You were chasing a young man at the Maeve ritual last night, calling him Peter.' Aubrey played the "ritual card". She felt it was the right time and didn't feel the need to consult Barnaby first.

'What ritual? What are you talking about?' Cathy looked surprised.

The effect wasn't what Aubrey had hoped for. Either she was mistaken or the girl was an excellent actress. Cathy had of course been masked, as had Peter, but she felt quite sure it was the two of them she had seen.

'Oh, come on. You punched me in the face when I was stopping you from hitting Joan Osbourne.' Aubrey refused to let Cathy off the hook.

Cathy just shook her head and turned to her solicitor. 'They're mad, they're completely mad. They talk about a dead man I've never met and some ritual I haven't got a clue about. Can you tell me what they're up to? Are they trying to frame me?'

The solicitor looked up from his papers. 'Yes, DCI Barnaby, that's a relevant question. Exactly what are you trying to prove? I can't see that you have presented any plausible evidence at all so far. My client's been driving a car. Is that a crime, since it was borrowed and not stolen?'

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation and a PC looked in and asked for Jones to step outside for a minute.

'Well… your client has been seen threatening a murder victim's companion at a ritual of a sexual nature, she has been violent towards one of my officers, of course not knowing she was a police officer so I won't hold that against her, and she has been filmed driving and parking a car just outside the house of the murdered man at a time corresponding rather well with the estimated time of the murder.' Barnaby inhaled deeply from his long amplification. 'How's that for building up a case?'

'Nothing, you have absolutely nothing.' The solicitor looked at Barnaby. 'I demand that you set my client free at once!'

Again there was an interruption when a mobile phone began to ring. No one in the room reached to answer their phone, instead they all looked around at each other. The signal came from Cathy's handbag, but she made no attempt to reach out for it.

'Aren't you going to answer that?' Aubrey questioned.

'I'll bet she's not,' said Ben entering the room again, holding his mobile in his hand, 'because that is Peter Milner's phone ringing in her handbag.'

The solicitor went pale and looked as if he wished that he could vanish into thin air. Cathy just sighed and sank forward over the table, resting her forehead on her arm.

'Since Milner's phone couldn't be found in his apartment, I sent a message to his father at the hospital to get Peter's number… and I just got it.' Ben could hardly hide the satisfaction he felt inside, but he held it back due to the seriousness of the situation.

* * *

'So, you killed Peter Milner because he rejected you, but why did you kill Eric Singer?' Barnaby looked Cathy Cutler straight in the eyes. 'Did he reject you as well?'

Cathy Cutler met his eyes and didn't turn her face away. 'I repeat,' again Cathy was speaking as if Barnaby were an imbecile, 'I have had nothing to do with this Eric Singer… ever… period!'

'And you expect me to believe that? First time we met you declared that you despised the Church and everything it stands for. You then kill Peter Milner in much the same way as Eric Singer and you "decorate" his walls with pagan symbols. It seems to me you're rather deeply into these pagan ideas, deep enough to commit murder… obviously.'

'I've told you, haven't I?' Cathy looked straight at John. 'I knew the cult was under suspicion, Joan told us, and I thought it was quite obvious someone among us had killed this Eric Singer, so I thought, why not add the blame for Peter's death as well? That's why I painted that stuff on the wall… I don't give a toss about Joan's mumbo jumbo about ancient gods. It's all gobshite to me.'

'So why are you a member?' Aubrey asked.

Cathy rolled her eyes. 'For the sex of course! Or at least it was until I met Caradoc… Peter… But he used me! He told me he loved me and then he just ditched me. No one treats me like that.' Cathy's whole expression was trembling with anger.

'OK, let's go back to the murder of Peter,' Barnaby adopted a gentle and patient tone, 'you sent him a text asking him to meet you for just a few minutes, right?'

'You know that. You've seen the texts in his phone.'

'And when he accepted and gave you his address, you decided to kill him.'

'No, no… it was nothing like that. I thought I would be able to make him change his mind… to take me back.' Suddenly Cathy's aggressive expression changed. She now seemed like any teenage girl with a broken heart. 'I came to his room and asked him straight out why he had dumped me. He seemed very nervous and excused himself to go to the loo down the corridor.'

Cathy paused. 'I thought I'd help him make his mind up so while he was away I undressed and when he came back I met him naked to give him a hug.' Some tears rolled down Cathy's cheeks.

'And then what?' Aubrey asked gently.

'He started saying it was disgusting, pushing me away. He pushed me into a table and I hit my hip on the corner. It hurt like hell… He kept on calling me disgusting… So I reached out for my handbag and got out my taser. I keep it for protection.' Cathy suddenly seemed worried that keeping an illegal weapon would make her case worse and wanted to explain.

When the police officers said nothing Cathy took it as a good sign and continued: 'I gave him a shock and he passed out and then I made my mind up… If I can't have him, no else will either… least of all that slut Joan Osbourne.'

The room was absolutely silent when Cathy had finished. No one spoke. The solicitor had given up by now, realising that Cathy was out of his control; he just listened, as did the others.

'Cathy, one thing is troubling me,' John adopted his most paternal voice, 'you seem like an intelligent young girl…'

Cathy gave him a quick smile at the compliment.

'…but why did you keep Peter's mobile phone?'

Cathy hummed a little and then spoke: 'I was so tired I had to get home for some sleep. I thought I'd get rid of it in the morning… I couldn't really know he would be found so quickly, could I?' She looked at them searching for confirmation that she was right. 'Besides, I thought you would go for the cult.'

'But you are a member of the cult,' came from Aubrey, 'didn't you believe we would check you out as well as the other members?'

'Yeah, I guess so, but I thought he would make sure he was the one paying me a visit.' She pointed her finger towards Ben.

'Sorry I don't understand…' Aubrey frowned.

'I know he likes me. I saw him looking at me in the shop. I guess I kind of thought he would go easy on me.' She beamed a radiant smile towards Ben and looked as if she had found a new love in her life.

Ben looked into the beautiful girl's eyes and felt shivers up his spine. She must be mad. John came to the same conclusion from a more diagnostic point of view. This was a very disturbed girl who switched moods and even personalities in an instant

John finally broke the silence. 'Now, what about Eric Singer? Why did you kill him?'

Cathy sighed, but didn't answer. Her solicitor saw himself obliged to make one last effort on his client's behalf. 'When was the murder of Eric Singer?' he asked.

'Tuesday evening two weeks ago,' said John.

The solicitor turned to Cathy: 'Miss Cutler, do you remember what you were doing on Tuesday evening two weeks ago?'

Cathy woke up from a world of her own, rubbed her right temple and said: 'Yeah, of course. I was at the "Red Lion" in Midsomer Parva with some friends before going on to the cult meeting a few miles from there and then I was there the rest of the evening… with Peter…'

'And those friends, do they have names and phone numbers?' Barnaby seemed quite sceptical about Cathy's reply.

Cathy didn't answer. She just reached out for the pad of paper and scribbled down some names and phone numbers. With a bored face she handed Barnaby the paper.

Barnaby looked at Cathy in surprise and then turned to the solicitor: 'I think this calls for a pause, while we check up on these things. Please, let the duty officer know if you want any refreshments.'

* * *

Barnaby and Aubrey were talking in the incident room when Ben entered. They both looked expectantly at him but he slowly shook his head.

'No doubt about it?' Barnaby muttered.

'No, sir, not a doubt.' Ben really hated to be the bringer of bad news. 'I've been through Donald Walker's pictures from that evening and she's there, all through the ritual. Young Cathy seems to have been one of "Mr Wanker's" favourite subjects.'

'And you of course have no problem in identifying young Cathy naked, even though she's masked?' Aubrey asked in a spiteful tone.

'As a matter of fact I don't; besides, there's a birthmark on her left thigh that helps as well.' Jones smiled back at Aubrey with a pretended act of triumph.

'Damn,' Barnaby hissed through his teeth. 'Well, Aubrey's been in contact with some of the friends and they all confirm her story, which means there's no chance she could've been in Badger's Drift at the time of the murder.' John looked very disappointed.

'So, we've solved one murder, but we're back to square one with the first one.' Aubrey sighed and then shrugged her shoulders. 'Well, I guess a few more days in Midsomer won't hurt me.' She gave Ben a conspiratorial wink that made him almost blush.

'Sir… sir!' In the door to the incident room stood Desk Sergeant Angel calling for attention.

'Yes?' Barnaby turned around from the whiteboard.

'There's a Mr and Mrs Cutler in reception. They're Cathy Cutler's parents. They want to see their daughter.'

'Poor people,' Barnaby sighed, 'Aubrey, will you go out to meet them and take them to the conference room and you, Ben, can you rustle up some tea and take it there?'

'_Now that was a change,' _went through both Aubrey's and Ben's mind, but from different angles, _'sending the male officer to get the tea.'_

'_Perhaps he wants me to bake some biscuits as well, _Ben thought sourly, as he muttered: 'Right, sir' and went off.

'Should I tell them?' asked Aubrey with a small hint of satisfaction, looking at Ben's slouching shoulders as he left.

'No, wait for me. I'm just desperate for a quick visit to the gents. I'll be with you in a minute.'

* * *

As they relaid the story about Cathy and her final confession to Gary Cutler and his wife, Mary, both of them got paler and paler. Mary had a hard time holding back her tears and by the end of the story, where Barnaby tried to describe Cathy's execution of Peter as gently as possible, she burst into tears and moans.

'I'm afraid your daughter is a very disturbed young woman,' Barnaby couldn't find a milder way to say the words, 'and it is my professional opinion that she won't go to prison but into closed psychiatric care.'

Gary Cutler gazed at Barnaby, but seemed to look through him. When he finally opened his mouth, he said: 'What did you say the boy's name was again?'

'Milner, Peter Milner.'

'Oh, my God,' Gary buried his face in his hands and moaned. When he looked up again he turned to his wife and said: 'Forgive me darling, please forgive me.'

Mary Cutler looked absolutely puzzled and blinked to get the tears out of her eyes, but before she could ask what he meant Gary Cutler spoke again: 'I'm afraid it will get even worse for Cathy…'

Barnaby raised an eyebrow and waited for what was about to come.

'She's killed her own half-brother,' Gary said with a barely audible whisper.

'Gary..? Gary..?' Mary Cutler's voice got higher and higher before she suddenly passed out and slumped down in the chair, falling sideways over Aubrey.

Ben immediately got his phone out and called for paramedics. While they waited nothing more was said. One could almost touch the sadness in the room as Aubrey sat there waiting with Mary Cutler's head resting on her knee. Ben went for a blanket to wrap around her and John sat down beside the crying Gary Cutler, just holding his arm around the poor man's shoulders.

**Thursday**

George Bullard wasn't at all satisfied when he lifted the receiver to call Chris O'Sullivan. Chris usually delivered as promised. George couldn't understand what had taken him so long this time.

'Hi Chris, it's George. I know you said you would get back to me but… that was nearly a week ago.'

'I left a message for you on Monday, George. Surely you got it?' O'Sullivan sounded genuinely surprised. 'I spoke with some lad at your office called Dave and left a message for you to ring me back.'

Bullard sighed and began thinking about the conversation he would have with Dave Spitz later on, but he collected his thoughts and returned to the phone call: 'Why's that?' asked Bullard, 'why didn't you just send the report over as usual?'

O'Sullivan told Bullard, who after saying 'goodbye' rushed out of his office to the car park, where he got in and with screaming tyres headed for the police station. While driving, thoughts and different alternative explanations rushed through his mind, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't come up with anything that was both plausible and perfectly innocent.

He left his car at the first available parking space without paying any attention as to who it might belong to and half-jogged in to meet an absolutely empty incident room. He would've thought that John Barnaby would order an early start after yesterday's disappointment with the Singer case. He knew Tom would have done.

Instead John had called for a late start, to let "the troops" get some rest and regain their energy. Bullard looked around in the corridors but couldn't find Barnaby or Jones or Brierly. He considered giving John a call but decided against it. This was information that had to be delivered face to face, so he went for a cup of coffee and sat down waiting.

* * *

John couldn't help seeing it. About two blocks away from the station he caught sight of Jones' car slowing down and stopping by the pavement. Out of the car stepped Aubrey. As soon as she had shut the car door behind her, Ben drove off and Aubrey began walking. It didn't take much for John to put two and two together. So, that was what all the glances were about…

He smiled to himself. Aubrey was only here on a temporary basis and as long as it didn't interfere with their work… Where was the harm?

Driving past Aubrey he waved at her, but didn't stop to offer a lift, since she had only a block left to go.

On his way to the incident room he went by the coffee machine and when he entered it with a plastic cup in hand, burning his fingers, he found Bullard there, seemingly in an intense and secretive conversation with Jones.

'Good morning, George, nice to see you here. Anything popped up?' He gave George and Jones a smile and also a quizzical look.

Ben turned to Barnaby, showing a face that was far from rosy from the night's presumable events with Aubrey. He looked devastated. 'You could say that, sir. Dr Bullard, you tell him.' Ben swallowed hard and had trouble keeping his voice steady.

Aubrey had now turned up and she just went in and silently took a seat, to hear what Bullard had to say.

Bullard looked very uncomfortable as he cleared his throat loudly and spoke: 'I was in contact with the crime lab this morning and they were finished with the DNA tracing from Eric Singer's car.' Again Bullard had to clear his throat. 'They found three different human DNAs. Eric Singer's of course and also his wife's…' Bullard went silent. He obviously had a hard time getting the words out.

'Come on, George,' Barnaby really couldn't understand why Bullard was under such stress; if they had a trace for the murderer that was good news, 'do we know who the third person is?'

'I'm afraid we do. They managed to match the DNA because it's already on file…'

'So it's a known criminal!' Barnaby was standing up now, eager to go and make an arrest.

'No,' said George with a gloomy face, 'it's on file for elimination purposes…'

'But that means it's from one of us,' Aubrey interrupted before Bullard had a chance to continue.

Two pair of eyes was now intensely focused on Bullard. Ben looked out through the window.

'The DNA is from Gail…' Bullard sighed and seemed to shrink in his chair. Now the unbelievable news was out.

'Pheeeew.' Barnaby emptied his lungs of air and almost fell back in the chair he had been sitting in earlier. He looked at Aubrey, who seemed to take in the news with composure. Of course she looked shaken, but she didn't have any personal relationship with Gail, so presumably it was easier for her. Ben's face was absolutely grey and that helped John make a quick decision.

'Aubrey, you come with me and get DC Stephens here for an interview.'

'Sir, I feel I have to be in on this, after all it's Gail we're talking about…' Ben rose as if to make ready to leave.

'I know and that's exactly why you're not in on this, Ben. Sit down!' The last words weren't spoken in a harsh manner, but the tone left no room for discussion. It was an order.

John looked at Ben: 'Gail is now the number one suspect in a murder investigation. An investigation in which she has lied to us before and is therefore under suspension. Ben, you've been Gail's closest colleague. Of course you can't be in on this. You understand that, don't you, Ben?'

Ben said nothing but nodded slowly. Barnaby watched Ben breathe heavily and then the DS burst out: 'Sir, it couldn't have been her. She was with us at the boss' party!' He gazed sternly at the DCI to see if his argument had had the wanted effect.

'What time did the murder happen?' Barnaby asked.

'According to the time on the recording the time from when the burglar entered the church to when he or she left as a murderer was between 7.50 and 8.10 pm,' answered Aubrey.

'Ben, when did Gail arrive at Tom's?'

'Just before 9… sir. She was a bit late,' Ben admitted reluctantly.

'See, Ben? With just a slightly heavy foot on the accelerator, she could easily have done the distance in that time.' Barnaby spoke calmly to Jones. 'Ben, I'm not saying she did it. I'm just saying we have to treat her as a suspect. You do understand that, don't you?'

Ben had slumped back in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, hanging his head and saying nothing.

On their way out Barnaby bent down to Bullard and whispered: 'Please look after him, will you? Don't you need his help at the mortuary or something? To keep him out of here, please.'

'I'll think of something,' Bullard replied.

**To be continued...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thursday continued**

'Take one of those small recording devices with you, please, and I'll meet you in the car park in 5 minutes. You drive.' John tossed the car keys to Aubrey. 'I'm not a very good driver and I can't think while I'm driving and right now what I need to do is think.'

Aubrey caught the keys. 'Aren't we supposed to bring her in?'

'No. She may be our prime suspect right now, but she's still a colleague. I won't bring her in for everyone to gloat over for a first interview. We'll take it at her place and see where that leads.'

'Right, sir,' said Aubrey. The "sir" came from nowhere, but felt right. Her respect for the DCI increased every day she worked with him and this sensitivity about a fellow police officer really made an impression on Aubrey.

She went to get the recording device and met Barnaby again in reception on his way out. They went out into the lovely sunshine. There wasn't a cloud as far as the eye could see. The beautiful weather really didn't correspond with the unpleasant task ahead of them.

On the steps down from the police station they bumped into Cully Dixon.

'Well, hello there! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?' John gave his cousin's daughter a big welcoming smile. 'You're not here looking for your father, are you? Having forgotten he's retired?' John couldn't resist teasing Cully a little, knowing that she was not always "on the same planet" as everybody else.

'Hi, John. Hi, Aubrey.' Cully smiled back at them. 'No, John, I may be distraught sometimes, but I'm not that whimsical. Besides, mum and dad are off on holiday. Dad trying to live through the abstinence of not having a murder on hand and mum trying to bear with him and get some fun out of it.'

'So..?'

'I came to hear if what I've heard is true… that you've arrested Cathy Cutler for murder?' Cully gave John a look that said that she wouldn't take any lame words about confidentiality as an excuse.

'Between us and off the record… Yes, it's true.' John knew Cully would handle the information with care.

Cully sighed: 'That's awful tragic news and just my bad luck… which may seem a bit odd under the circumstances, but it really gives me a lot of trouble.'

'How come?'

'I'm here for a few weeks giving evening drama classes and Cathy is our lead as "Snow White" in the play.'

'Sorry,' said John, 'but you'll have to find someone else to play the part.' He couldn't help thinking "The Wicked Stepmother" would've been a more suitable part for Cathy.

'Right. Thanks for letting me know. Is Ben around somewhere? I haven't seen him for a while.'

'Afraid not, he's with George Bullard.'

To her own surprise Aubrey felt a twinge of jealousy when she looked at the lovely woman Cully had turned out to be. When she had left Midsomer Cully had still been a rather pretty but childish girl in her early twenties. Now she was all grown up, really pretty and asking for Ben…

Barnaby briefly looked sideways and caught the shadow moving over Aubrey's face.

'OK, I'll be off then. Give my best to Sarah.' Cully smiled, turned around and walked away with Aubrey's eyes following her.

'She's happily married to a nice young man. They're devoted to each other,' said John straight out as he began walking towards the car.

'_Ouch. Where did that come from?' _Aubrey thought, but decided not to ask, since she didn't want to know the answer and the possible consequences.

* * *

When Gail opened the door and found the new DCI and the nice London inspector outside she felt like hiding in a hole in the ground. She immediately understood that her bubble of lies had burst. She showed them into her little sitting room and asked if they wanted something to drink. They both refused the offer.

Aubrey took out the recorder and Gail realised that this was serious, perhaps more serious than she had at first thought.

'Gail, this is an official interview in connection with the death of Eric Singer,' John talked calmly to the young DC, seeing how shaken she was. 'I don't have to inform you of your rights, you know them as well as I do. Do you want a solicitor present?'

'No…' Gail managed to whisper. She leaned back in her armchair feeling that she needed support if she was going to stay upright.

Aubrey started the recorder and nodded towards John, who said the formalities for the record.

And then he began his questioning by putting the photo of the hanging Eric Singer in front of Gail. 'Do you know this man, Gail?'

At the sight of the dead Eric, Gail felt her stomach turning inside out and she reached the waste basket just in time to put her head in it. One of the few benefits of suspension, probably the only one, had been that she didn't have to see the picture of the hanging Eric every day.

She emptied her stomach with loud retching noises. John asked Aubrey to get a glass of water and once Gail had finished she gratefully accepted and emptied the glass with a few large gulps. John handed her a handkerchief and she slowly patted the tears from her face.

Finally Gail spoke: 'Yes, I knew that man. His name was Eric Singer, only I thought his name was Adrian McNamara… and I'm carrying his child…' The relief of finally letting the truth out was overwhelming for Gail and she cried helplessly for at least five minutes before she was able to collect herself again.

Barnaby sat still and said nothing while Gail was crying and when he saw Aubrey's worried face and her desire to comfort her and come to her rescue, he silently shook his head to prevent her. In his opinion there was nothing wrong with crying and people in general were much too afraid of it. Probably because it made them feel uncomfortable, more than having sympathy for the one who was crying.

When Gail had stopped crying she needed no encouragement. Her story flooded out of her.

'I've been a member of the cult for about three years. I've no belief in those ancient gods but Joan's a really nice person, once you get to know her. As I said when I spoke to the Super and Ben I'm too shy to pick men up in bars, so I saw this as a way to make physical contact with the opposite sex without all the fuss. Then I met Adrian… or Eric… at a ritual meeting about half a year ago. We connected and stopped being involved in…' Gail paused and searched for the right words. '…in "ritual games" involving anyone else. After three or four times we decided to meet outside the rituals and we began seeing each other.'

She continued: 'Mostly we were here at my place, but sometimes we'd drive over to Foddington and go out for a meal. I became a little bit suspicious when Adrian, sorry Eric…'

'It's OK with Adrian,' said John, 'we know who you mean.' He smiled encouragingly.

'Right,' Gail gave a faint smile, 'well, as I said I became a bit suspicious as to why he never took me out in Causton, in fact he seemed to avoid it. Then he explained that he lived with his very old and very over-protective mother and didn't want her to find out. That was also why he didn't look for girls in the usual way, instead he went to the rituals to get his "needs" fulfilled.

'Of course I realise now what a naïve fool I've been, believing in him, but I was head over heels in love with him, or at least I thought I was at the time. I would've believed anything he said.' Gail wiped away a tear. 'But that was it! We usually saw each other on Mondays and Thursdays and sometimes on the weekend over the following months.'

John and Aubrey sat silent and listened. They didn't feel the need to interrupt Gail, now that she seemed to be telling her story out of pure relief.

'In fact the weekend before Adrian… Eric was murdered we went away to London from Thursday to late Sunday evening. He said his mum was at a friend's house, so he could get away.' Gail gave a tired laugh. 'What a bloody fool I've made of myself, haven't I? Of course I should've realised that he was married, but I just didn't want to know.'

'_So much for visiting a second cousin in Carlisle,' _thought Barnaby, _'but of course he wouldn't have told his wife what he was really up to.'_

'Excuse me for a second.' She rose and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. When she came back she swallowed hard. 'It was on the same night as the murder happened, after the party at Barnaby's, that I went home and did a pregnancy test. It was positive. Only to find out the next morning that the father of my child and the man I knew as Adrian McNamara was a murdered, married church-warden from Badger's Drift called Eric Singer…' She took a large gulp of water and looked very tired.

'Hmm, I must say you handled the situation rather well at work. It must've been a terrible shock. But, Gail, you really should've come forward at once,' Barnaby said with compassion.

'I know, but I just couldn't…' came in a whisper.

'Adrian McNamara, any idea where that came from?' asked Aubrey to get Gail out of the self-possessed trance she seemed to be slipping into.

'Yes, as a matter of fact I do,' said Gail coming back to "the real world", 'when I ran the background check on the Singers I discovered that Adrian was his middle name and McNamara his mother's birth name.'

'OK, now Gail, you came to Tom's party just before 9. What did you do before that?' Barnaby purposely threw the question in out of nowhere to be able to judge Gail's reaction. How would she handle it? Hesitate and think out a lie? Give a well-rehearsed answer at once? Or perhaps come up with a perfectly natural explanation? He really hoped for the last alternative.

'I was at the hair-dresser's,' she replied instantly, 'and the one I was booked with was off sick, so I had to wait. That was I why I was a bit late for the party.' The realization that they had her as a suspect had lit a fire in Gail's eyes. She looked firmly straight into Barnaby's eyes. 'I still think I have the receipt in my purse, if you want it?' The last question was spoken more in the tone of a challenge.

'Please, Gail, you know I do, but let me say I'm very, very glad that you still have it. Even if it leads us back to having no suspect again,' Barnaby tried to end with hearty laughter, but when Gail looked at him the laughter got stuck in his throat. She didn't appreciate his sense of humour.

Gail went for her purse and when she returned she had regained her senses and was no longer aggressive. 'What happens to me now?' she asked, looking utterly sad again.

'Well, you're still under suspension and will remain so. You have, as you well know, perverted the cause of justice by withholding important information,' Barnaby stopped when he heard how formal he sounded, 'I really don't know, Gail. Right now we'll have to focus on the murder and then we can deal with your problem. Let me think about it for a while, OK? In the end it's not up to me, but to Superintendent Cotton.'

'OK.' Gail's voice trembled.

'We'll show ourselves out. Bye, Gail and take care.' With those words John and Aubrey left the flat.

* * *

'Sir, there's a Mr and Mrs Singer waiting for you,' Desk Sergeant Angel announced the minute Barnaby set foot inside the station's front door, 'they're the parents of the deceased.'

'Thank you, Angel, I almost could've worked that one out by myself,' Barnaby answered grumpily, being in a bad mood. He was relieved Gail was off the hook, since he was sure that Aubrey's check on her alibi would hold water, but he was annoyed about being back at square one in the murder case again.

'Sorry, sir. Only meant to help.' Angel sulked.

'No, I am sorry, Angel. I'm just in a bad mood. Where are they?'

'I took them some coffee in the conference room.'

'Good! And Angel, thank you!' Barnaby smiled at him to make amends.

Barnaby walked over to the conference room and through the glass wall he could see a couple in their 60's obviously waiting for him. He walked in and greeted them. Eric Singer's father was a tall man with silver-grey hair and an equally silver-grey walrus moustache. He was smartly dressed in a high quality dark suit and looked like a distinguished English banker, but as soon as he spoke his origin was obvious. The mother was like a caricature of the wealthy American housewife. She wore an expensive dress with too much glitter in the fabric. She wore too much jewellery and her hair was dyed almost blue-ish.

'Now Inspector, how close are you to catching our son's murderer?' Mr Singer spoke with the authority of a man used to being in command. 'It's been more than two weeks now…'

Barnaby chose a defensive strategy: 'We're following up several lines of enquiries and I'm sure we'll have a result soon.'

'So…' Mr Singer looked at Barnaby with undisguised scepticism, 'what you're really saying is that you haven't got a clue, right?'

'I assure you, Mr and Mrs Singer, that we're doing everything we can.'

'Of course you are, but couldn't you do it just a bit harder and more effectively?' Mr Singer wanted results. 'Our son is being buried this weekend and we're only here for the funeral. It would be good to get some news about an arrest before we leave.' The man pouted, his upper lip making the huge moustache point outwards like the spines on a hedgehog.

'You'll have to excuse Edward,' Mrs Singer spoke with a gentle New England accent, 'he doesn't mean to be rude, he's just very direct…'

'There's no use beating around the bush,' Edward Singer commented. 'But I guess you really are doing what you can,' his tone was milder, 'just let us know as soon as there's any news, will you?'

'Of course we will,' assured Barnaby and to lead the conversation in a more pleasant direction he asked: 'Is it good to be back home in old Mother England? You've been here before?'

Both Mr and Mrs Singer looked at Barnaby as if he was the village fool. 'Mother England?' came from under the huge moustache.

'Yes...? I got the impression Eric's grandfather had emigrated from here to America..?' John carefully implied.

'Now where ever did you get that from?' asked Edward Singer. 'My ancestors came from Germany seven generations back and my wife's family is all Irish. And believe me, they would never have got involved with an Englishman. In fact Moira,' he nodded towards his wife, 'was the first girl ever in her family to marry outside the Irish community.'

'But then I made quite a catch,' Moira gave her husband a loving glance, 'He was only 23 years old and already owned a big farm in Montana.'

'I'm sorry. My mistake,' John apologised, 'I must've got it wrong.'

'No need to be sorry. Just catch our son's murderer and please be fast!' Edward Singer, obviously a man of action, now decided the visit was over and held out his hand to say goodbye and then left with his wife.

John sat down for a while thinking. Not only had Eric Singer lied to Liz about where he had been, Liz Singer had also lied about it. There was no second cousin in Carlisle, because surely she had to know there were no English ancestors in Eric's family. What could that mean?

He would find that out tomorrow.

* * *

John parked the Volvo outside his house and went in. Tonight he would have a long chat with Sarah over Skype. He longed for her, but he wouldn't go down to Brighton this weekend. Sarah would be away on a school trip with her class, so there was no one to go home to.

Through the kitchen window he caught sight of the neighbour's marmalade cat majestically strolling up the garden path. With a sprightly jump it landed on the warm bonnet of the car, curled up, yawned and prepared for a nice rest.

'_I'll teach him a lesson,' _John thought and looked around for a bucket. He found what he was looking for and filled it with cold water from the kitchen tap. With the bucket in his hand he tiptoed out through the veranda door and over the lawn. The soft grass helped him move without a sound and the cat didn't notice him until John chucked the water over the car and the cat. It flew up as if stung by a bee, hissed and made a flying start out of the garden, back to safer grounds. John chuckled to himself. That would keep the cat away, at least for a while.

**Friday**

After breakfast Barnaby went out to his car and started the engine. It was a warm morning and the air conditioning was running at full force. Even before he had backed out onto the street he could sense a stinging smell coming through the air intakes. What was it? It smelled like… No, it couldn't be. He stopped the car and went out, sniffing, and as he bent down at the front of the car he realised what it was… cat's urine. The cat must've taken its vengeance and sneaked back into his garden and sprayed the car with urine. When he stood up straight again the next unpleasant surprise became visible. In the black car paint on the bonnet there were some very distinctive scratches. Barnaby symbolically hit himself on his forehead. The stupidity of scaring the cat off with water was crystal clear now. The cat's claws had made sure of that when it escaped. Barnaby swore silently about what he would do with the cat next time they met, before getting into the car again and driving to the station… with the air conditioning off… sweating…

Jones was already at the station. He sipped his plastic cup of tepid coffee, rolled another ball of paper and threw it, aiming at the waste-paper basket a few feet away. He couldn't concentrate. Yesterday evening he had called Aubrey to hear what had happened with Gail. He had been immensely relieved to hear she had an alibi. But when he had asked Aubrey to come over she had tried to avoid the subject. She didn't say 'No' flat out; instead she had talked about spending an evening at home with her parents. He had then tried to convince her to come by later, but she had answered she could do with a good night's sleep. Perfectly natural excuses, of course, but there had been something in her voice… something making him worried and thinking about that phone call the first night they were out…

Now Aubrey was out checking Gail's alibi and wouldn't be in until lunchtime, so he couldn't ask her face to face if it was something he had said or done.

He was woken from his thoughts by Barnaby walking in.

'Good morning, Jones.'

'Morning, sir.'

'I imagine you've already heard Gail's got an alibi?'

'Yeah, Aubrey told me.'

'I'm sure she did,' said Barnaby, giving Jones a smug smile.

Jones looked at the DCI. What did he mean by that? Could he suspect anything?

'We're going out to see Liz Singer. We'll take your car, mine's at the garage,' Barnaby said without explaining why he had left his car there. He really hoped that a thorough car wash would take the smell away.

'What for?' Ben asked grumpily, before remembering who he was talking to. 'Sorry, sir, I mean, why do we want to see her?'

'I've found out, quite by accident, that she's been telling us a lie. I'll explain on our way there. And if she's been telling us one lie… why stop at one? She may have told us several. Come on, let's get going,' the DCI said very cheerfully.

* * *

'I was so ashamed,' the tears were rolling down the cheeks of Liz Singer, 'surely you can understand that?' She sneezed loudly into a paper tissue and looked heartbrokenly at Barnaby and Jones.

They were sitting on the lawn in some attractive garden furniture, drinking iced tea. The Singers' garden was full of flowers and bushes unknown to Barnaby, which Liz explained had been brought there by Eric from Montana. They had walked in on Liz sunbathing in the garden, so she was wearing only a bikini. But quite a decent bikini, not just three tiny patches of fabric and some strings, as the old DCI referred to young women's swimwear. Ben thought Liz looked rather nice, having gained a few pounds over the last two weeks. She seemed to have spent quite a lot of time sunbathing, since she had a good bronzed tan. Her skin looked smooth and the only disturbance was a scar on her stomach. Ben recognized it as probably the scar from a spleen removal; his brother had one just like it. Liz Singer was not his type at all, but she was a pleasant enough woman, if you fancied slim women. Which the DCI obviously did; a quick glance at him told Ben that he was enjoying the view.

'We had a very good marriage for the first few years,' Liz continued, 'but then something happened and Eric started having one affair after another. Mostly short flings and I tried to not let it get to me, since he always came back and assured me I was the only one he loved.' She dabbed her swollen eyes with another tissue.

'What happened?' Jones asked in his kindest manner. He really liked Liz Singer and didn't want to cause her any more distress than necessary. 'Why did he begin to have affairs? Was it something special that triggered it?'

'I really don't know. He just gradually changed and we drifted apart.'

'Why didn't you leave him? Or at least threaten to?' Barnaby rubbed his chin hard, studying Liz Singer's face.

'Oh, believe me I did. I tried everything. I begged him, I ignored him, I threatened him, I did everything, but… at the end of the day… I just loved him so much… so I stayed and told myself the others weren't important. I was the one he loved and came home to.'

'But why couldn't you tell us this? Why did you lie to us about an invented cousin? You must've realised we could've checked the story.' Barnaby wasn't at all convinced by Liz's confessions so far.

She sobbed a few times before gathering herself together. 'As I said .I was ashamed. Ashamed that I wasn't a woman enough for my husband and I didn't think it would have anything to do with Eric's death and I still don't understand why you want to know all this? Eric was murdered by a burglar..?' She underlined her questions with a raising of her eye-brows.

'Mrs Singer, all we want to have is the facts and the truth and then when we realise someone's told us a lie, well, we get curious,' Ben continued with his gentle tone, feeling really sorry for the poor woman. He also could also feel a stitch of anger towards Gail for being a part of this, for being one of the reasons Liz Singer had had an unhappy life.

'Yes, I suppose you're right,' Liz sighed, 'but this time it seemed Eric was more serious about it. He had never gone away with any of his "girlfriends" before.' She uttered the word "girlfriend" with obvious disgust. 'He didn't even try to deny it. He didn't say where he was going and when I accused him of going away with a "girlfriend", he just didn't answer.'

She sat silent for a while, thinking.

'When you asked me where he had been, I panicked. I just couldn't get myself to tell the truth so I invented the lie about the cousin out of the blue,' Liz gave Barnaby a wry smile, 'It was a pretty clever lie, don't you think?'

'Yes, Mrs Singer, it was,' Barnaby smiled back at her, 'but it was still the wrong thing to do.'

'I know,' she whispered, 'and I'm so sorry.'

'Mrs Singer, were you aware that your husband took part in pagan fertility rituals on a regular basis?' asked Ben. Even though he liked Liz and felt sympathy for her, he thought the boss was perhaps becoming a bit too soft on her.

Liz Singer's eyes widened and her mouth opened and let out a: 'What..? What did you just say?'

Ben repeated the question.

Liz Singer silently began crying. 'As if it wasn't enough with his affairs… Did you say "pagan fertility rituals"?'

'Yes.'

'I just can't believe it. When and where?' Liz looked at Ben with tears rolling down her face.

'Here in Midsomer, at various places but all within the county,' Ben pulled out another tissue from his pocket and handed it over to her, 'every week on Tuesday.'

'So that was where he was going…' Even though the tears kept coming Liz's voice now had a note of anger in it. 'All those years I thought he was at a book reading circle for men in Causton.'

She fell silent for a while before continuing, 'I still find what you're saying very hard to believe, but I guess you have some kind of evidence..?'

'Yes, we do have a witness statement from someone who's met your husband at those rituals.'

Liz Singer let out a sigh, but managed to produce a faint smile. 'Well, what do you really know...?'

'So you had no idea about this?' Ben asked as his final question.

'Obviously not, I'm afraid,' Liz kept her voice steady when she answered, 'but I certainly wish I had…'

'Well, we'll be off,' Barnaby said as the two detectives stood up, 'thanks for the iced tea.'

* * *

After an afternoon with paperwork John suggested that they should round the day off with a few drinks at the nearby pub. He really didn't have any desire to go home to his empty house for a lonely Friday night in.

'I'm just so glad that Gail's alibi was waterproof,' Aubrey said with relief as she took a large swig of her lager shandy.

'Yeah,' Ben said hardly audibly with his mouth buried in a pint of Guinness, 'but how could she..? I mean with Eric Singer…?'

'Don't be too hard on her for that, Ben,' said John, 'she had no idea he was married or even what his real name was. What's more serious is that she withheld information from us…'

'What did the Super say?' Ben looked at Barnaby with a troubled expression.

'Haven't told him yet. Thought I'd work on it over the weekend.'

'What do you mean "work on it"?' asked Aubrey

'Well, if I tell Cotton the truth straight up, there's no doubt Gail will have to leave the force… and even from the little I've worked with her, I'd say that would be a great loss. So let's say I'll work on a "variety" of the truth.'

'Sir, if you do that I'll be eternally grateful to you. Gail doesn't deserve to get fired.' Ben swallowed hard.

'Aah, don't get your hopes up too much, Ben. I said I'd try! I can't guarantee anything and Cotton may well have a more unforgiving attitude than I have.' Barnaby sipped from the half of ale he had reluctantly ordered when Ben took the rounds, remembering he had to get his car back from the garage and drive home. He tried to make it last as long as possible, while both Ben and Aubrey were already on their second drink.

They stopped talking shop when Aubrey pointed out that it was after all Friday night and talked about other things for half an hour, when Barnaby finally declared he'd be going home. Ben had been waiting. He wanted to get some time alone with Aubrey or even better to take her home to his place. He rested his eyes on the soft curve her large breasts made under her jersey and felt how much he wanted her. But when he raised his eyes and tried to catch hers, she turned her gaze slightly away and asked if she could get a lift with the DCI.

Barnaby and Aubrey said "goodbye" to Ben, leaving him feeling as if he had been cast into outer darkness. He was confused. Why was she treating him like this? He had a burning pain in his chest both from unanswered desire but mostly from feeling rejected. Perhaps he was a naïve romantic? But he had already had time to make plans for some kind of future with Aubrey. They had connected so well. And now...? Tomorrow he would make her talk to him… but meanwhile he could ease the pain with another pint, the third, but definitely not the last this Friday evening…

* * *

Aubrey sat in her old girl's room looking at the walls. She had excused herself early from her parents' never-ending questions and prying into her private life. She loved them of course, but she could also get so tired of them. It was good to live in London and keep a little distance between them.

Ben lived in Midsomer. He was such a sweet and gentle man, but he was also everything she had sworn never to get involved with. Both a colleague and a country boy. Why had she given in to temptation? Why? She would only hurt him; it was obvious he was very fond of her.

And yesterday evening when "he" had called again, the man of her dreams, it had all been different. He had been loving and caring. Asked interested questions about how work was going. While they talked she had felt all those passionate feelings she felt the first time she met him. But he was a difficult man. Or was it her, being a difficult woman? The only thing she knew was that so far she couldn't live him… and she couldn't live without him. So when Ben had called later on to ask her over, it had been much too easy to make up an excuse.

The nights with Ben had been a very stupid attempt to cut loose, but she had really thought she could do it. Ben was wonderful. But as soon as "he" had called again, she knew she was back in his arms.

She climbed into bed and laid her arm over her eyes. Tomorrow she would have to tell Ben in some way. Hopefully without leaving him too bitter and wounded.

* * *

Gail hoped she had been to the bathroom for the last time today. She had heard of morning sickness in connection with being pregnant, but "all waking hours"-sickness...? And sometimes even waking up at night.

She was beginning to feel exhausted. As if it wasn't enough with all the vomiting, she was really worried about her future. She had put so much effort into her policing career and now it seemed it might all be flushed down the drain. But by no one else's fault than her own.

She felt miserable and so angry at herself. What would her parents say? Her friends? Ending up pregnant with a murdered adulterer and sacked from her job. An unemployed single mother in the queue at the Jobcentre Plus office. Was that her?

Her only relief in all this anguish was that she'd finally come clean with the DCI. She had nothing more to hide now and didn't have to tell any more lies. Though it had taken her to become a murder suspect before she had finally told the whole truth.

What a bloody fool she had been! And now she feared most of all, despite all the trouble she was in, facing Ben again. Good old Ben, who had done nothing but support her those few years they had known each other. Friendly competition, sure! But always ready to lend a helping hand when needed. She couldn't help feeling she had let Ben down most of everyone… except herself of course…

* * *

John sat down in his only comfortable chair. He was really beginning to despair. They were getting nowhere in this investigation. Of course they had solved one murder, but that was only a very amateurish and disturbed young girl, trying to use the Singer murder as a cover for her own twisted act of insane love and jealousy. He really could feel sympathy with her poor parents. Especially the poor mother, who had not only ended up with a murdering daughter, but also with an unknown murdered son of her husband. He wondered how that marriage was going to work out in the future.

He took up his mobile phone and texted a long message to Sarah. Hoping she was having a good time and telling her how much he loved her.

He got up again and walked into the kitchen and peered out through the window. He had lost count of how many times he had done this since he got home, but there was no sign of the cat so far. Perhaps the cat had learned its lesson? Perhaps it had been worth the scratches and the smell? Of course now the engine had gone cold, so it probably wasn't very attractive to the cat.

When he was tucked up in bed, he didn't bother reading. The book wasn't any good. Crime thrillers usually had no connection at all with the real world. He'd welcome one of those authors to Midsomer any day, to teach them how real police work was done.

As he slowly dozed off he couldn't help smiling at the thought of the cat drenched in cold water.

Suddenly he sat up straight. All the tiredness was gone. What a fool he had been! Could he act now? He reached for his mobile, but when he looked at it and saw what the time was he realised nothing could be done now. But tomorrow…

Tomorrow was Saturday but he would chase up the Crown Prosecution Service on a weekend call. He had to get a search warrant at once and then they would catch their murderer. He was sure of it. The villains always made one or two minor mistakes, no matter how clever they thought they were…

He set the alarm for 7 o'clock and then, oddly enough, he went to sleep and slept like a baby.

* * *

Ben almost tripped over his own feet as he tumbled into his flat. He flung his arm out to keep his balance and knocked over a china vase. It fell to the floor with a crashing sound and broke into pieces. What the heck, he'd never liked it anyway. It was a gift from his horrid aunt who saw it as her duty to give him useless pieces of home decoration for Christmas.

He stumbled on into the kitchen and drank what felt like a gallon of water from the tap. He knew he was drunk, but he was so drunk he couldn't do anything but giggle about it. He knew why he was drunk too. Deep inside he was terribly sad. Why was Aubrey avoiding him?

He had tried calling her on his way home from the pub, but he got straight to her voice mail. He had nearly followed a really good-looking woman home. She had been chatting him up all evening, but when he had realised that he was about to call her "Aubrey" he had turned around and walked straight out into the street, without saying another word.

Now he knew he would have a really bad night's sleep. He always had that when he was drunk. He loosened his tie and crashed down onto the bed, with his shoes still on, and immediately fell into the first half hour of a drunken coma.

**To be continued...**


	9. Chapter 9

**Saturday**

The sun was just rising when Ben entered the station. The constable in charge at the desk said a sleepy and surprised "Good morning" as Ben rushed by and into his office, where he turned on the computer.

He had woken in the early morning hours and was struck by a thought that he couldn't get out of his head. He would definitely not be able to get back to sleep again, so he had a quick shower and made an early start.

While the computer was warming up he got himself a cup of strong coffee, to rinse the bad taste of yesterday's drinks away, and then he sat down and opened Eric Singer's autopsy report. He was looking for any specific marks on Eric Singer's body. He rubbed his tired eyes between reading the different parts and yawned loudly. There it was! He had found it. Eric Singer had a birth mark, the size of a large coin, on his right hip. Now Ben would hopefully be able to identify Eric Singer on Donald Walker's photos.

He would go through the lot of them to see if Singer was caught by the camera and if he was together with any specific women at the time.

Singer was easy to identify on those photos that had him in them. Ben silently thanked Donald Walker for his skills as a photographer and the high quality photo lens he had invested in. Mr Walker's focus had of course been directed at the female participants, so on most photos Singer was only half in or in the background.

But when Ben went a few months back he got to see a lot of Eric Singer. He got to see a lot of a naked Gail Stephens as well. She had obviously been one of Walker's favourites, so there were plenty of photos of Gail dancing with Eric, making moves that could've been sold to any "dirty" magazine. But Gail was no longer a suspect, so Ben scrolled hastily further back.

He had almost got to the beginning of Donald Walker's three-year-long odyssey of "bird watching" without getting anything interesting out of it. Eric was to be seen with various different women, masked of course but their body shapes told them apart, but seldom with the same woman twice in a row. Except for Gail. This didn't confirm Ben's theory that Singer had had a previous more substantial relationship with one of the cult women.

Then suddenly something caught his eye. On one of the very oldest pictures Singer was dancing very close to a woman, while another couple was dancing beside them. The other couple kept a much "safer" distance between them, but the odd thing was that the woman was looking at Singer and his dancing partner on all seven pictures Ben could find. She seemed to pay no attention to her own dancing partner.

She had a scar on the stomach that seemed familiar and Ben matched the body shape with his memory. The woman had to be… Liz Singer.

He was just about to dial the DCI's number when the phone rang. It was Barnaby. Ben answered: 'Sir, we need to get a search warrant for the Singers' house.'

At the other end of the line there was absolute silence. Ben waited, beginning to think the phone had gone dead. Then Barnaby spoke: 'How in the name of any Celtic god did you know that? I was just about to call you to get your bum out in the car park, because I'll be there within three minutes… with a search warrant for the Singers' home…'

Now it was Ben's turn to become speechless. He thought so hard that his head ached, but he couldn't understand how the DCI could already know what he himself had discovered only a minute ago. He replied: 'I'll be out in a sec.'

* * *

'Well?' Jones glanced at Barnaby, waiting for him to explain. 'How could you know?'

'You first,' said Barnaby, 'how could you know?'

As they pulled out onto the road to Badger's Drift Jones explained the idea he had had and how he had managed not only to prove his theory false but also to find evidence that Liz Singer had lied to them again. She definitely knew about the cult.

'Right,' Barnaby hummed and stroked his chin thoughtfully, 'that's good Jones, that's really good.'

'And now you, sir!' Jones demanded.

'Well, you see, it's all about a cat… or in fact two cats.'

Jones's face revealed that he hadn't the faintest idea what the DCI was on about. Cats..?

Barnaby told the story about his neighbour's cat and how it had made him remember. 'You see, when we visited Liz Singer that first night her cat was curled up on the bonnet of the car, remember?'

'Yes…' Jones still didn't understand where Barnaby was going.

'Next time we were there, she told us it was the cat's favourite place as long as the car was warm, but when the engine cooled down the cat wanted to get into the house. Do you see where I'm going?' Barnaby quickly took his eyes off the road and looked sideways at Jones.

Jones thought for a few seconds. 'Liz Singer told us she'd gone to bed early and still the car was warm… Another lie!'

'Yup, the lies are piling up and why, if she has nothing to do with her husband's death? Liz Singer has a lot of explaining to do, but this time we won't settle for just her words. We'll go through the house as well. Bullard's meeting up with his team,' Barnaby said as they reached the first cottages of Badger's Drift. 'I've also put Aubrey onto going through all CCTV material that can be found from all villages with charity shops from the night of the murder. I don't think Liz Singer was asleep, I think she was out driving, disposing of the items she stole from the church.'

He slowed down as they entered the narrow street outside the Singers' house. The van with Bullard's team was already parked two houses down, out of eyesight from the Singers'. As they stepped out of the car Barnaby instructed Jones: 'Let's take her out into the garden as soon as she opens the door. I don't want to give her the chance of hiding anything from us.'

'Don't you think she's got rid of anything worth hiding already?' Jones wondered.

'Of course she may have, but I have a feeling that Liz is quite sure she's been winding us up and that we don't have her down as a suspect and being too self-confident can cause people to be careless.'

Liz Singer opened the door looking extremely sleepy, wrapped in a far too large bath-robe that had to have been her husband's, with her hair on end. She squinted at the bright morning light and didn't put up much resistance as Barnaby and Jones each gently took hold of one of her arms and led her to the garden furniture. Bullard and his officers were already on their way into the house.

'What is this? What are those people doing in my house?' Liz Singer had got over her initial surprise and was now beginning to question what was taking place. 'They have no right to be there, have they?'

'On the contrary, Mrs Singer, they have every right,' Barnaby replied as he slipped the search warrant out of his pocket and held it towards Liz.

She took the paper and read it slowly, shaking her head. 'But why..? Why all this? What is it you want from me?'

'The truth, Mrs Singer, all we want is the truth and so far you've been a bit parsimonious about that, haven't you?'

'I really have no idea what you are talking about. Ask me anything you want and I'll tell you, but please get those people out of my home.'

'Why's that so important?' Jones asked, 'is there something in there you don't want them to find?'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Liz Singer snapped, showing some of her upper class breeding, 'I just don't want strange people snooping around in my home.'

The morning was so warm, sunny and beautiful, Barnaby thought it quite a remarkable and almost macabre background to the scene of interrogation they were about to conduct.

'Can I at least go in and put the kettle on?' asked Liz, 'I haven't had my morning coffee yet.'

'I'm sorry Mrs Singer, but you can't enter the house until we've finished.'

Liz Singer pursed her lips and gave Barnaby an evil eye.

'Mrs Singer, you claimed that you had no idea your husband was attending cult rituals of a sexual nature, isn't that so?' Jones played out the first card as he and Barnaby had agreed on during the drive.

'Yes, that's right. Surely you remember? It was only yesterday you asked me,' answered Liz.

'Are you quite sure that is the truth?' Jones gave her another chance to answer.

'Of course I am,' Liz looked at him with indignation, 'why should I lie about that? I know I lied about Eric's affairs, but I've explained all that, and with that out in the open, why should I lie about a thing like this?'

'And you have never taken part in these rituals yourself?' Ben was weaving a web that would soon catch Liz, lonely fly that she was between two spiders in the shape of Jones and Barnaby.

'Now you're being utterly ridiculous. Don't you think I would remember if I had been "partying" in pornographic rituals?' She gave the two detectives a really offended look.

'Then what do you have to say about this?' Jones slowly produced enlarged copies of the ritual photos he had discovered from a folder. He spread them out in front of her on the table. 'It is you, isn't it? Not dancing with your husband but next to him, keeping an eye on what he's doing with that other woman.' He waited in silence, intensely observing Liz Singer's reaction.

Liz swallowed hard a few times. She looked at the photos, held them up one by one, studying them. Barnaby also studied her, trying to see what she might reveal. Her face didn't give anything away, but Barnaby got the impression the whole slow procedure was a way of buying some time before answering.

Suddenly Liz burst out in anger and tears. 'Oh my God… Can't the past be buried and laid to rest?' She paused to catch her breath, before spitting out: 'And who is this pervert that's been taking pictures of this whole sordid business?'

Ben didn't let Liz's outburst affect his slow take on the matter. 'So you don't deny it is you and your husband in the pictures?'

She looked up at the beautiful light blue summer sky, praying for strength. 'There's no point in denying it, is there? If it wasn't for the scar, I would've denied it and kept silent about it until death if necessary, my face being masked and everything… but that scar really gives me away…' Liz sighed heavily. 'Now, where do I start?'

'You can start by telling us why you lied to us again, Mrs Singer. It really seems to be a most inconvenient habit of yours. Let's hear the truth now, shall we?' Ben spoke with a firm voice.

'Alright… alright… I will tell you,' Liz hesitated for a second, 'but you have to promise me one thing.'

'What's that?'

'That none of this ever comes out in public! It would kill me.' Liz's face showed the fear she had for public disgrace. 'Besides, it's not as if this has anything to do with the death of Eric, so why should it come out?'

'We'll have to be the judges of that, Mrs Singer, but if this turns out to be insignificant to your husband's death, I don't see why it couldn't stay between us.' Ben gave her a reassuring smile to ease her distress. 'Now let's hear about it…'

Liz laid her hands on the table, as if she needed something to hold on to, and then began to talk. 'When I discovered Eric's first affair I was devastated. I didn't know what to do. Apart from the obvious of course, which was telling him I'd leave him, he'd have to stop seeing her, etcetera, etcetera. But you see, none of this had any effect on Eric.' She looked down at the table and a tear dropped down on her hand.

'He said he loved me, but that he needed other women as well. That I was too uptight… in bed…' A silent sob came over her lips. 'Then I found out about this pagan cult, through the friend of a friend, and I thought… It was all so stupid really… I thought it better if we would go to these rituals together.' She looked at them again. 'You must think I'm rather thick, but I really thought that if Eric saw me with another man, he would also feel the pain and that would put an end to it all.' She fell silent.

'But..?' Jones asked when her silence seemed to continue.

'But it didn't. I couldn't go through with it, I couldn't go with a strange man, all sweaty and out in the forest on the dirty ground. It disgusted me, while Eric… Well, let's just say he enjoyed his evening.' Liz straightened her back and seemed to make a decision not to withhold anything. 'After that I gave up and, really stupid again I guess, I decided it was better if he was at the rituals "doing it" with several unknown women, than if he was to keep on having affairs and maybe eventually fall in love with another woman… So, yes, I knew where Eric spent his Tuesday evenings, but again I was too ashamed to admit it. I couldn't see that it had any bearing on your case, so I lied to you again… and I am so sorry.' She looked at them with the impression of a puppy having done something really bad.

John Barnaby studied Liz Singer while she was collecting herself. _'What an actress she is_,_'_ went through his mind, _'she's playing the role of the neglected wife to perfection. And what a lovely woman she could've been, cared for by the right husband.' _He could feel sympathy for her and her motive for killing her husband, but that was no excuse. Wanting to kill was one thing, actually doing it was quite another and John was absolutely convinced now that they were dealing with Eric Singer's killer.

'Then, Mrs Singer, perhaps you would care to explain how come all the church burglaries have taken place on Tuesday evenings?' John fixed her his steady gaze on her eyes.

She seemed genuinely surprised by his question. 'How would I be able to explain that? I haven't got the faintest idea. Coincidence..?'

'Come on now, Liz, no further lies.'

Her eyebrows went down and she gave him an angry glance. 'Look, I know I've been untruthful with you, but I really don't see what any of this has to do with Eric's death. Are you accusing me of having anything to do with my husband's death?'

'Even more,' said Barnaby, 'I think you killed your husband.'

Liz Singer put her hand over her mouth and looked absolutely shocked.

Barnaby didn't give her time to start objecting: 'I think you set up a series of church burglaries to carefully build up a chain of events that would, in the end, lead to the burglary of St. Michael's and the murder of your husband.' Barnaby didn't make any pauses, he was about to give her his full theory and hopefully she would give up and confess. 'The burglaries took place on Tuesday evenings, because those evenings your husband was out of the house and you could be away from home without raising suspicion. After the burglaries you dropped the goods outside various charity shops, because you really aren't a thief, are you?'

'You must be out of your mind, I've never been so insulted…' Liz Singer half-screamed at Barnaby. _'Still playing the part,' _Barnaby thought, _'she may be a tough nut to crack.'_

'Ah, Mrs Singer, I'm not finished yet,' Barnaby interrupted her flood of objections, 'it was the cat that gave you away. The night we first came to you, it was sleeping on your car because it was warm. You hadn't been home asleep, you had been out driving, disposing of what you stole earlier that evening.' Now Barnaby silenced, looking at Liz and waiting for her reaction.

Liz fiddled with her necklace and then she turned to Barnaby and said very calmly: 'And that is your whole case against me? A cat sleeping on a car? Please, forgive me, but I seriously believe you'll be making a fool of yourself if you take that to court. You haven't got a single shred of evidence.' The smile she gave Barnaby was triumphant. She had been surprised by the photos from the ritual. She hadn't known any photos existed, but she thought she had handled it rather well and she had got the DCI's full theory out of him. That was what she had aimed at, not this morning, this was a surprise visit. No, she had planned a visit to the station on Monday to find out, because she had had a nagging feeling that the senior detective, despite his mild manners, had her under some kind of suspicion.

'So you don't deny that you killed your husband?' Barnaby felt disappointed. He had hoped for a more desperate reaction when revealing the story.

'Of course I deny it and unless you have any further pointless questions I would like you to leave now. I have some sunbathing to do, after I've had my breakfast.' Again Liz easily drifted into her upper class behaviour, which she undoubtedly had in her genes, dismissing them as if they were unwanted farmhands.

She made ready to rise, when George Bullard came out through the front door, holding a bagged up piece of paper in his hand. He signalled for one of them to come. Barnaby gave Jones a short nod, meaning he was to stay keeping an eye on Liz Singer, and walked over to Bullard. Jones could see how they discussed something and Barnaby held the paper up to get a closer look.

Barnaby asked Bullard if a fake tattoo would leave any traces on the skin and the answer was depressing. If it was a henna tattoo, sure, it would probably still be there. But if it was painted with something more easily soluble, time would've made it untraceable. It was after all two and a half weeks since the murder had taken place.

When he came back he held the paper up so that both Ben and Liz Singer could see. It was a sketch of the Maeve symbol.

'They found this slipped under a bookcase in the study. Any comments?' Again Barnaby's hopes rose that Liz would give up and again they were crushed immediately.

'No, no comments.'

'But surely you recognise the motif?'

'I don't think so… No, I don't know what it is.' Liz first acted as if she was uncertain and then she gave him another triumphant smile.

'It's the symbol of the Maeve cult, the cult you and your husband visited,' said Barnaby.

'Well, I wouldn't know,' Liz replied, 'it was years ago and I really don't remember any symbol. If it was found in the study it must've been my husband's. The study was his area and he was the one who apparently really was a member of this obscene society.'

'_She has an answer for everything,' _Barnaby thought, _'and so far she's right. We don't have enough evidence.' _The mobile phone buzzed in his pocket and when he picked it up the display told him it was Aubrey. He excused himself and strolled away in the garden to take the call undisturbed. The news Aubrey had for him was terrific, but yet again nothing that could actually tie Liz Singer to the murder. He rounded a very nice birdbath and wondered if it had been there before.

'Is he married?' Liz Singer's question came out of the blue and Jones was baffled for a moment.

'Yes..?'

'What a pity. He seems such a nice man and quite attractive too, once he gets this ludicrous idea that I should have anything to do with my husband's death out of his head.' She looked at Jones. 'You look shocked, sergeant. A woman's got to look out for herself and even though a short period of solitude can be gracious, we do need a man by our side in the longer perspective.'

Jones just looked down at the grass and shook his head slowly. First young Cathy and now this. Was every living woman insane?

'Mrs Singer,' John had stepped back into the scene, 'would you care to explain the fact that your car is on CCTV in every village that has cameras and also has a charity shop, on every Tuesday night for six consecutive weeks, ending the night your husband was murdered? And I might also add that all charity shops in the villages have had stolen church items anonymously deposited on their doorsteps.'

'No, I wouldn't,' was Liz' short answer.

'What?'

'No, I wouldn't care to explain that,' she extended her answer, not even looking in Barnaby's direction.

'Well, I'm afraid you'll have to.' The tone in Barnaby's voice made clear he was determined to get an answer.

Liz sighed. It was difficult to tell if the sigh was from exhaustion at all the questions or if it was because of the stupidity of the policemen.

Barnaby just sat silently and looked at her. In his experience a long silence was one of the best ways to make people talk, so when he noticed that Jones was going to say something he waved his hand to silence him.

'Alright, alright. I promised no more lies, didn't I?' Liz turned her face back towards the detectives. 'I've been having an affair as well. I thought it only right. If Eric was going to leave me, I had no intention of being left on my own. So I started to scan the market, so to speak.'

'And do you expect us to believe in such a coincidence? That you and your lover visited exactly the same villages where stolen goods were deposited?' Barnaby frowned at the fact that she even cared to deny it, but at the same time he knew he could never tie her to the stolen goods without witnesses, DNA or fingerprints.

'Yes I do,' Liz Singer declared frankly. 'The fact that I was in those villages is quite natural. We chose villages as far away from the rituals as possible for our little "tete-a-tetes". I didn't want to run into Eric, you see…'

'We'll need the name of your lover to verify this,' said Jones.

'And you won't get it, so you'll just have to take my word for it.'

'Mrs Singer, surely you understand that if you are innocent, we need this to eliminate you from our enquiries?' Jones tried the diplomatic way.

'No, I don't. You can trust my word. I am after all the daughter of Lord Middleton. I'll only reveal my friend's name if I'm under oath and that means you'll have to arrest me and take me to court…' Liz Singer answered Jones, but challenged Barnaby, looking in his direction, by both pulling rank and pointing out that, so far, they were merely having a conversation. 'So… am I under arrest?'

Barnaby sighed heavily. She knew exactly how to hit the weak spots in his theory and he was seriously beginning to wonder if they would be able to get her. It seemed impossible without a confession and a confession didn't seem to be on Liz Singer's agenda.

Bullard and his team was now leaving the house and when Barnaby established eye-contact with Bullard the answer he got was a head-shake, saying "No, there was nothing more to find".

Liz Singer had also noticed Bullard's head-shake, so she rose and almost merrily said: 'Well, gentlemen, I guess that's it for today, isn't it? So good of you to drop by, but in the future I would prefer it if you called in advance.' She couldn't help giving them a superior smile.

'Right, Mrs Singer, we'll be on our way, but please don't make any travel plans without letting us know. We might want to talk to you again.' Barnaby forced a smile in reply, cursing inside.

'Oh, I wouldn't dream of going anywhere until Eric's murderer is caught… or until the case is dismissed due to lack of evidence…' Liz couldn't help feeling elated. She knew they knew… and there was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do about it.

Barnaby took a few steps out onto the lawn. 'Nice birdbath, Mrs Singer, really nice. New is it?'

'Yes, isn't it lovely,' Liz thought she could afford to play the part of the polite hostess and she was really proud of the birdbath, it was like a jewel in her garden, 'I had it installed only two weeks ago.'

Barnaby froze in his step. He turned around and gave Liz Singer a wolf-like smile that sent shivers down her back. She knew the moment she had said "two weeks ago" it was a mistake.

'George, George,' Barnaby shouted out loud and managed to get Bullard's attention just as the last man was getting into the van, 'come back here with your team, please. And bring the spades, they have a bit of digging to do…'

* * *

Liz Singer sipped her cup of tea and looked around. 'Not very nice in here, is it? But I suppose that's part of the plan? Making the prisoner feel depressed and easier to interrogate.'

She was of course right in both respects. The interrogation room wasn't very nice and that was in fact part of the plan.

Ben asked if she wanted a refill of her cup, but she declined. 'Isn't it time we got started?' she asked.

'When you're ready,' Barnaby replied, switched the recording device on and said the procedural phrases. 'I have to ask you one last time, Mrs Singer, are you sure you don't want a solicitor present?' When she again refused the offer, he continued: 'Well then, Mrs Singer, please describe to us the chain of events from your point of view.'

Liz seemed relaxed when she told her story. She was again the very gentle woman they had encountered the first time they met her. Probably because she didn't feel under suspicion back then and could be her natural self; so, now that she was no longer suspected of having killed her husband, she could stop acting and revert to her normal behaviour. This was Barnaby's psychological analysis as he sat silently, listening to her.

It had all begun when Eric had told her he had met another woman and that he was going to leave her.

'I just couldn't let that happen, you see? Eric was mine… and even if I could live with sharing him with other women, I knew instantly that I couldn't live if he left me for another woman. Perhaps I might bump into the two of them at some village fête, looking happy.' Her words were a mixture of deep grief and pure hatred. 'As I've told you before I begged him to stay, I told him I would do anything, but this time it wasn't any use. He was determined to leave me.'

The tragedy of the whole affair affected Liz and it was obvious it was hard for her to describe this part of the confession. She finished her tea and accepted a refill. Strengthened by the hot brew she continued: 'I considered my options… Suicide was definitely one of them…'

Liz couldn't meet their eyes as she spoke, so she held her head low and looked at the table.

'I even humiliated myself to the extent that I offered Eric to keep his fancy woman on the side, as long as he still lived and spent some time with me…'

She fell silent for a long while, so long that Barnaby had to ask: 'And what did Eric answer to that?'

Liz looked up and met his gaze with a tormented expression: 'He laughed at me… he laughed at me straight to my face and told me I was "nothing" to him any more. That he wouldn't touch me even if I was the last woman on the planet. He described in detail all the perverted things he and his slut of a woman were up to in bed. And when he saw me break down, he laughed even more… and still… all I felt was that I couldn't let him go to this other woman…'

'Take your time, Mrs Singer, take your time.' Barnaby thought it best to give her a few minutes before going on: 'But, Mrs Singer, this must've been about two months back. How come Eric still lived with you? Why hadn't he left already?'

'Please, Chief Inspector, can we drop the "Mrs"? It makes me feel a hundred years old. Just call me Liz, will you?'

'Of course, Liz. And I'm John, OK?'

'Good! Well, to go back to your question, the reason he still lived with me was because his solicitor had advised him to. Apparently there were some legal matters he wanted sorted out before he filed for a divorce and for some reason the solicitor thought that if Eric left our home before that, it could be a disadvantage for him later on.' She could see Barnaby's next question coming and answered before he had spoken. 'It was a nightmare. Eric avoided being at home and when he was away I knew he was doing all those filthy things with that whore..'

Ben couldn't help reacting strongly to her words. It was Gail she was calling names and he felt very protective about Gail. But he had to keep his mouth shut. Liz still had no idea who the other woman was and they had agreed not to tell her. If she knew that the other woman was their colleague she was unlikely to co-operate so willingly.

'And when he was at home all I did was to further humiliate myself, begging and begging again for him to reconsider and stay with me…' Liz ended the sentence in a whisper. She took another gulp of tea and regained some strength. 'I came to a point where I really thought about suicide, but at the same time it felt so wrong. I wasn't the one who had my leg over, I wasn't the one who was an adulterer… Why should I be the one to die?'

Barnaby could feel this was a crucial point in Liz's story. What made her take the decision that her husband was the one who was going to die? He kept silent and waited for her to continue.

'Eventually I asked myself three questions,' Liz said as if she was re-living these thoughts again, 'One: Did I want to die? The answer was "no". Two: Could I imagine going on living without Eric, knowing he was sharing his life with another woman? The answer was "no" to that as well. So, you see, I was caught between a rock and a hard place, but then when I asked myself the third question, I found the answer…' She cleared her throat. 'The third question was: Could I live without Eric if I knew no one else could live with him either? The answer to that question was "yes" and then I knew what I had to do…'

The meaning of her words and the silence that followed was dominating the room. All that could be heard were three people breathing. Eventually Barnaby carefully asked: 'And what did you do, Liz?'

'I thought about it for a day or two and got rather used to the idea of being a grieving widow, the only one with a right to remember and honour the memory of Eric… So I set up a plan which was in all important respects exactly as you described it this morning in my garden.'

'OK, so the burglaries were a side-track to get us looking in the wrong direction? But what about the Maeve tattoo on your wrist?' asked Barnaby.

'Well, I knew Eric had met his slut through the cult. He told me so… No, he didn't tell me, he rubbed it in my face… So I thought it quite an appropriate idea to put the blame on the cult, after all it was their entire fault, wasn't it? Encouraging people to do such things… In the best of all worlds perhaps the blame would even land on Eric's slut…' Liz produced a faint smile at the thought.

'Or on someone completely innocent, didn't you consider that?' Barnaby objected.

Liz didn't seem to understand what Barnaby had meant by the word "innocent". 'They all deserve it, behaving like that.' This was obviously not an opinion in Liz Singer's mind, it was a fact. 'So I had to make a plan that pointed anti-church, hence the burglaries, and then I topped it all with the "accidentally visible" Maeve tattoo.' Liz looked rather satisfied. 'You found one of the sketches I did when I practised painting it.'

'Just one thing that bothers me, Liz,' Barnaby knew they already had her confession, but he didn't want to leave any loose strings for the defence to hold on to, 'you write with your right hand, yet the tattoo was on your right wrist. How's that possible?'

'You think of everything, don't you?' Liz smiled at Barnaby. 'I'm actually left-handed, but I went to one of those posh schools where they forced me to learn to write with my right hand. Being left-handed was apparently considered some sort of defect in their world.'

Barnaby just mumbled as a reply.

'Mrs Singer,' Ben thought it best to address her properly since he hadn't been invited to put the titles away earlier, 'I understand you're not a visitor of the church?'

'No, I'm not. I don't have believe in any higher power at all,' Liz replied and added, 'and it's Liz to you too, Ben.'

'But your husband was even a church warden. How does his behaviour make sense if he was a Christian?' Ben was having a hard time getting this picture together.

'You mean like having affairs, attending pagan rituals on Tuesdays and then going to church on Sundays?'

'Yes.'

'It was all perfectly natural for Eric. He was a Christian in the sense that he believed in God forgiving all his sins, so he sinned, pardon the expression, like hell during the week and then asked for forgiveness on Sundays.' Liz gave a sardonic cackle of laughter. 'Conveniently for him, though, he chose to forget the part about showing true remorse for your sins.'

Barnaby had been thinking during Ben's questions. 'Liz, how could you be sure Eric would turn up at the church?'

'Oh, that was easy! He was, after all, a very dutiful church warden and my raid of church burglaries worried him quite a lot, so I knew he had made a habit of driving past the church whenever he was going somewhere in the evenings. I knew which time he would be going to the ritual and that if I was there and left the front door a little ajar, he would stop and go in to check everything was alright. A piece of cake really.'

John's mobile buzzed in his pocket. He excused himself and went out of the room, but was soon back. 'Liz, that was George Bullard. I guess you know what they found under your nice birdbath?'

'Oh yes, of course I do. They must've found my burglar's outfit, the shotgun I used to threaten Eric with and his mobile phone. Probably full of obscene text messages between him and his slut. I actually didn't bother to check it, but I'm sure there are loads of them.' A look of sadness passed over Liz's face. 'Oh, and of course the body painting I used to make the tattoo.'

'That pretty much sums it up, I'd say. Thank you, Liz.' Barnaby turned to Ben. 'Sergeant Jones, since you are the SIO perhaps you would…'

'Just one more question, if I may?' Ben looked first at Barnaby then at Liz Singer.

'Of course,' said Liz. Barnaby just nodded.

'Just before you kicked away the chair from underneath your husband's feet, I think you said something to him, didn't you? What did you say?'

'Poor Eric, he was so frightened that he hadn't worked out it was me, his own wife, and for some reason I wanted him to know it was me.' Liz looked thoughtful, as if she was thinking about what that reason could've been. 'So just before I kicked the chair away I said to him "Have a nice death, dear Eric". There's really no reason to forget your manners just because you're killing someone, is there?'

Ben was stunned. There was no reasonable reply to that, so instead he began with the formalities: 'Elizabeth Singer, I am arresting you for the murder of your husband, Eric Singer…'

* * *

It was early Saturday evening and the team was gathered in the incident room. Barnaby had just told the rest of the team what he and Jones had been up to and the outcome. He looked out over the people in the room and liked what he saw. They were all good policemen and he was sure he was going to like it here in Midsomer.

Ben kept looking for Aubrey but he couldn't see her anywhere in the room.

'So,' Barnaby addressed the gathered police force, 'let's go down to the pub and the drinks are on me!'

A delighted murmur spread across the room as the attending police officers began to drift away to the nearby pub.

'Are you coming, Ben?' Barnaby looked at his sergeant, who seemed lost in a world of his own. 'You heard the drinks are on me?'

'Oh, I heard you, sir. Just don't make a habit of it.'

'Why's that? We've just solved a murder case — no, two murder cases; I think that calls for a celebration, don't you?'

'Yeah, but with the murder rate here in Midsomer, you could end up bankrupt, sir,' Ben said with a wide grin on his face.

Barnaby couldn't help laughing out loud. It was true. His cousin had warned him that he wouldn't be short of grisly murders to solve. 'Come on now, Ben, let's go.'

'Excuse me, sir, but I'll come later. I want to have a word with Au… Inspector Brierly first. I'll join you later.'

'Right,' said Barnaby and sauntered off.

* * *

'Angel, have you seen Inspector Brierly?'

'Sure,' Angel answered, 'she left about two hours ago, while you were still in the interrogation room. She said something about a train to catch, I think…'

'A train?' Ben swallowed hard, hoping that Angel had misunderstood.

'Yep, but I think she was looking for you. I saw her coming out of your office just before she left.'

Ben didn't waste a second. He went straight into his office and found an envelope lying on his computer keyboard. He sat down and with trembling hands he ripped it open, afraid of what might be in it.

_Dear Ben,_

_When you're reading this I'm probably on a train back to London._

_I tried to tell you I've been in this off and on relationship that has been mostly off recently. But now he's got in touch again and I feel I owe it both to him and myself to give it another chance._

_Sorry, but that's the way it is._

_I don't regret the time we spent together, Ben. You're a wonderful man and the woman who finally gets you will be a lucky one._

_I hope you can feel the same way about the short time we had._

_Maybe if I come back to Midsomer one day? Who knows what the future holds for us? But please, don't wait for me or anything like that. I'm not likely to come back._

_Go out and find the lucky woman who is waiting for you out there somewhere without knowing it._

_Love,_

_Aubrey_

Ben read the short letter over and over a dozen times and then he clenched his fist and crumpled it in his hand. He threw the paper ball with frustration in to the waste-paper basket.

He closed his eyes and just sat for a while, thinking. He thought about Aubrey and the two wonderful nights they had had together, but he also thought about the difficulties a relationship with a colleague would bring, a superior colleague too. And Aubrey would never come back to work in Midsomer and he would never go to London. He didn't like big cities.

When he had thought it over a few times he began to feel… not happy, but not sad either… it felt a bit like ripping off a plaster and finding that the blistering skin underneath was already beginning to heal. Aubrey was right, of course. Deep down he knew she was.

Ben made a decision. Tomorrow he would call that good-looking new female fire brigade officer he had met at a false arson alarm a few weeks back and ask her out for a date. She was broad over the hips too, just as he liked it. With a smile on his face, Ben left the station and headed off to join the others at the pub.

**Monday**

'Now you stay there,' John tried to adopt a stern voice as he pointed his finger at Sykes, who was lying in his basket in the corner of John's office. 'I'll only be a short while.'

Sykes had been delivered late the night before by some friends from Brighton, who were driving up north, through the county of Midsomer. Sarah had several days' teaching indoors in front of her this week, so Sykes had to stay with John. And even if John was a bit hesitant about bringing Sykes to work, he was glad of the company in the evenings. For tomorrow he had worked out a deal with some nice kids in the neighbourhood that would take care of the dog for him, but today bringing him to work had been the only solution.

As John headed off towards Superintendent Cotton's office, Sykes gave him a long soulful look.

John had spent the entire Sunday thinking about this meeting and late yesterday evening he had decided on a solution. Not a good one, but definitely the least bad one John thought and the two phone calls he had made had confirmed that.

Despite the gloomy business of the meeting, John was light on his feet and his spirits were high. It was his first day as the official boss of Causton CID. Now he was really in charge and Jones was back to being his right-hand man. Not that he thought Jones had made a bad job as the SIO over the last weeks' murder cases, but John just liked to be in command. It was his nature.

He knocked at Cotton's door and entered. John was ready for battle.

* * *

Gail was so nervous she could hardly sit. She changed position every ten seconds, waiting in the visitor's chair in John Barnaby's new office. The DCI had called for her to come down at 10 am. He wanted a meeting about her suspension, but refused to tell her anything over the phone. That couldn't mean good news, could it?

When she came down to the station five minutes early she was overwhelmed by the hearty greetings she got from all the colleagues she met. She really didn't want to lose her job. She gained nothing by turning up early. Angel told her the boss was out walking his dog and that she was to wait in the office. So here she was… waiting… She compared her feelings and thoughts with what criminals must feel when they are on trial.

Suddenly she heard a strange sound in the corridor outside. She leaned forward to have a look and was met by a white and black terrier of some sort coming towards her, wanting to greet her as if she was a long-lost friend. She patted the little dog that just couldn't get enough of her attention.

'Sykes! In the basket!' DCI John Barnaby appeared and filled the doorway. The dog immediately followed the command and left Gail for his basket. 'I hope he didn't disturb you, Gail?'

'Not at all, he seems a lovely little creature,' Gail said, even managing to produce a smile.

'Coffee?' John asked still standing.

'No thank you, sir. I'm fine, really.' The mere thought of coffee almost turned Gail's stomach inside out, but she managed to restrain the impulse.

'OK then, let's cut the small talk and get to the point, shall we?' John looked at Gail for confirmation and got a nod in reply. 'I imagine you're anxious to have some news about your suspension, I know I would be.'

Gail said nothing. Her tongue was glued to her palate. Instead she half-closed her eyes and nodded again, thinking: _'Here it comes! Here I get the sack and I can't even say it's unfair.'_

'Right then,' John fiddled with some papers, 'today is Monday and how would you feel about reporting to a…' John looked in his papers again, 'here it is, a Richard Wakeman over at the Foddington nick on Wednesday, 8.30 a.m. sharp?'

Gail understood absolutely nothing. What was the man talking about? Wakeman? Foddington? All she could manage was: 'Sorry, sir, I didn't quite get that.'

Barnaby gave her a broad smile. He could see from Gail's reaction that she had been prepared for quite another message. 'Gail, the Chief Constable is setting up a brand new IT-forensics unit in Foddington and has appointed an excellent young DCI by the name of Richard Wakeman as head of the new department.'

Gail still looked as if she had been caught on candid camera.

'I've spoken to DCI Wakeman and I've also e-mailed him your CV and service records. He'd be delighted to have you on his team.'

'But, but… The Super..? Cotton… What has he to say about all this?' Gail stuttered out the words, incapable of really believing and trusting what she had just heard.

'I've talked to the Super and we've agreed that this is an excellent solution. You need to leave this department, Gail, after what's happened. I hope you can understand that? But at this new unit your computer skills will achieve their true value for the force and I'm sure you'll do an excellent job.' John was now eager to cut the conversation short. He didn't want to get into too much detail about his meeting with Cotton.

'Does DCI Wakeman know..?'

'About the suspension? Yes, of course, no problems there.'

'No, sir, I meant about me being pregnant…' Gail whispered, sure she had now found the weak spot that would turn it all into a mess again.

'Oh that, yes. No problems there either. From what I understood from DCI Wakeman this unit will be almost only young people, not old dinosaurs like me, so one or two being away on parental leave will be only normal.'

This was too good to be true. A new job, not far away, she could drive there from home until she found a nice place in Foddington, a new unit working in her special area of interest. It was definitely too god to be true. She didn't know what to say. Tears of joy came as she took a few fast steps forward, round John's desk, where she gave him one long and intense hug.

She knew he must've done something when presenting her case to Cotton, otherwise the outcome would never have been this. But she didn't intend to ask. She was just so thankful when she stepped back and looked at him. '8.30 sharp you said, sir. Tell DCI Wakeman I'll be there.'

'I'll do that, Gail, and make sure you stop by at Ben's on your way out. Bye, Gail.' John Barnaby felt easy at heart. He knew he had made the right decision.

* * *

Ben was in a good mood. Yesterday's call to fire brigade officer Susie Bellingham had been a success. He had asked her out for Wednesday evening and when turned down, he had almost ended the call abruptly, but was luckily stopped when Susie explained she was on duty call Wednesday evening and if they were going to have a date, she didn't want to be disturbed, whether early in the evening or late. Ben thought for a moment about what the last words could mean, but could stop thinking when Susie asked him over to her place on Thursday evening instead with the words: 'I'll cook, so you just bring a bottle of decent red, will you?'

He thought about Aubrey. She was a really nice woman and, even if he had immediately fallen in love with her, he was glad she had done what she did. He really didn't want to be involved in a love triangle where probably all three participants would end up hurt and in misery. Love wasn't something you should have to fight for. Love should come easy and having to try to convince someone to love you back, that would never be Ben's tune.

Suddenly his amorous thoughts were interrupted by Gail storming into his office and hugging him, laughing with joy and talking so fast that Ben couldn't hear a word she was saying. When she had calmed down she told him the fantastic news about her meeting with Barnaby.

'And the best of it all, it's "my" job! You know what I mean, Ben, I love working to track down the villains in the cyber world. It's almost like a promotion. Oh, Ben, the only bad thing will be not working with you…' Gail still couldn't hide how happy she was.

'Of course I'll miss you, Gail, but this really is your job. And how far away is Foddington? Almost nothing, I can come over and we can go out for something to eat or go to the movies,' Ben said, with a happy smile on his face. He was so happy for her, but inside he really wondered how the DCI had made this possible. 'It'll be even better. We can bitch about our work and stuffed-up colleagues to one another and it won't even be the same work or the same colleagues we're talking about.'

Gail laughed at his bright idea and they chit-chatted on about how good it would all be. When Gail finally rose out of the chair to leave, she stroked Ben's cheek gently and said: 'You know I love you, Ben, you know that, don't you? And I'm so sorry for what I did and that I didn't rely on the trust we have. So sorry…'

Ben looked at her and felt warm inside. He loved Gail too. A love that had nothing to do with passion, but with very deep friendship. He hadn't known Gail for that many years, but with some people you don't need a lot of time to build a deep friendship; it comes naturally.

When he hugged her goodbye, she whispered: 'I want you to be the child's godfather, Ben.'

Ben squeezed her a little harder and whispered into the hair by her ear: 'That would make me so proud.'

* * *

Ben saw the back of Gail disappearing through reception on his way to Barnaby's office. He was so happy for her, but he suspected that a lot of her happiness, and his happiness for her, was the work of one man. The man he was about to see.

The door was open and Barnaby was on the phone when Ben put his head in. Barnaby waved for him to take a seat and then rounded off the phone call with some friendly phrases. He was obviously talking to someone he knew quite well.

When he ended the call, Ben didn't wait a second more than necessary: 'Sir, what about this business with Gail? The outcome of this is… impossible! I know Cotton and he's strictly a by-the-book man.'

'Well,' Barnaby answered very slowly, 'that's for me to know and you to… forget.' He hesitated for a moment, but decided that keeping secrets from his closest colleague would be a bad idea. 'I'm quite terrible when it comes to technical devices. I didn't manage to switch the recorder on when Aubrey and I spoke to Gail, so we couldn't have a transcript done.'

'But, sir, Aubrey would've known…'

'I was in charge of the recorder and… I have informed Aubrey that I was and she has no problem with that. Do you have a problem with that, Sergeant Jones?' This was the crucial point where Barnaby threw out the bait for Jones. Would he take it or not?

'Of course not, sir.' Ben smiled, but he was still worried. 'But that report from the lab, the one that Bullard got about Gail's DNA..?'

'I called George yesterday and it turns out he has a rather hopeless young helper. Who has mislaid papers more than once… Strangely enough, this young helper will remain employed in Bullard's office. So the report about Gail is "mislaid" and nowhere to be found.' Barnaby gave Ben a conspiratorial smile.

Ben thought for a while, feeling happy inside. The man in front of him had taken a huge risk to save a colleague. Not any colleague, it was Gail. 'But is this safe, sir?'

'I think so. I trust you, George and Aubrey and it was actually Eric Singer's parents that put us on the track to Liz's lie about where Eric was. Nowhere else in the case material is it indicated that he was away with Gail. He was away with a "mistress unknown".'

'But Gail's mobile and the text messages from Eric?'

'Aah, but you see, Gail used an unregistered cash SIM card for her private mobile and that card, I reckon she's flushed it down the loo by this time.' The smile on John's face broadened.

'Sir,' Ben rose and held his hand out towards Barnaby, 'I owe you one.'

'Don't worry, Ben, there'll be plenty of time to make up for that.' He took Ben's hand and shook it. 'And Ben… this conversation never took place, right?'

Barnaby picked up some papers from his desk and handed them to Ben. 'And for the rest of the day, Jones, you will be delivering the stolen goods back to the churches.'

'But, sir, couldn't uniform…'

'Jones!' Barnaby's voice sharpened and then he smiled again. 'Who was it that said he owed something to someone...? You'll do it.'

* * *

John Barnaby took a sip of the whisky and soda which he had just poured for himself and put it down on the glass-topped coffee-table in his sparsely-furnished house. He threw himself onto the sofa with a sense of great relief that it was not only the end of his working day but also the end of this troublesome case. If all his cases in Midsomer proved to be as difficult as this one... but he stopped himself there. He had come to appreciate the quiet rural charm of the place and the gentility of its inhabitants. The one thing that it was lacking, more than anything else, was Sarah. How he longed for her company, to share his thoughts and, of course, his bed...

His ruminations were interrupted by Sykes, who barked loudly. 'What is it, Sykes?' asked John, as the frisky little mongrel at his feet barked again. Then John realised that Sykes was barking at his own reflection in the magnificent silver chalice, which stood like a trophy cup in the middle of the coffee-table. John's heart sank as he remembered that this was the one part of the jigsaw, albeit a relatively minor one, that remained to be solved. Where did it belong?

Jones had delivered all the silver objects collected from the various charity shops in Midsomer the previous week to their rightful churches, but this chalice was still unaccounted for. It was not on Jones' list as an object reported stolen, though John had no doubt, judging from its decoration and apparent antiquity, that it had been taken from a church. Would Liz Singer be able to remember which objects she had stolen from which churches? Unlikely. Tomorrow, he thought, he would have to log it in the lost property register at the station and have it locked up in the safe. He took another sip of whisky and soda with his right hand while with his left hand he stroked Sykes' back, which at least stopped him from barking. John began running over the sequence of events in this extraordinary case in his mind, and his feeling of satisfaction returned.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright. Sykes looked at him questioningly. He had just remembered what Dave Errol had said on the day he had telephoned him_. "Nothing of any great value seems to be missing," he had said, "except the silver chalice, which is invaluable." _He hurriedly put the tumbler of whisky and soda in the fridge for later, glad he had only had two sips, and, picking up the silver chalice, rushed out of the house, much to Sykes' chagrin.

The sun had already set when John reached Badger's Drift, leaving behind a vivid red glow, and most of the houses in the village had lights on, usually obscured by heavy curtains. But the vicarage was in total darkness. John walked up to the front door and rang the bell. There was no reply. He knocked hard. There was still no reply. Perhaps the vicar had gone to the church again to 'see if everything was alright'. There was no telling, in Barnaby's experience, how many times a day a vicar might go to his or her church to pray, or at what hour.

Clutching the precious chalice under his arm, Barnaby walked the short distance to St Michael's. It, too, was in total darkness, but the entrance was not locked.

There was just enough of the fading evening light coming in through the stained glass windows for Barnaby to see, and to be fairly certain that there was nobody inside the church. He had turned and was about to go when he thought he heard a muffled grunt coming from somewhere closer to the altar. He stood still and listened. There it was again. Now there was a succession of grunts that had become rhythmical and were getting louder. He also thought he could hear another voice (and it was clearly human), moaning softly. Surely, he thought, members of the Maeve sect hadn't stooped so low as to use the interior of a church for their practices. What would Agnes Olsen have to say about that?

John cleared his throat ostentatiously. A head popped up over the back of a pew on the left of the nave some three or four rows away from the altar. It popped back down again almost immediately, but it was enough for John Barnaby to recognise Dave Errol and for Dave Errol to recognise John Barnaby.

'Good evening, vicar,' said Barnaby, 'I seem to have arrived at an inopportune moment.'

Dave Errol looked up again and, though in the faces of both men was a look of great surprise, the flabby features of the vicar were also etched with abject terror.

'I — I,' began Dave, struggling to get up, 'I'm busy... um, I'm instructing... one of our parishioners,' and he slid his left hand along the back of the pew to support himself, knocking some white garment, which had been draped over the back of the pew, onto the floor in the process. He eventually stood up, buttoning his shirt hastily.

John approached slowly, holding the chalice in front of him with both hands.

'It's ― it's...' began Dave.

'It's not what you think, Inspector,' said another voice, and Agnes Olsen's head popped up over the back of the pew. Her long grey hair was dishevelled, falling over her face and her shoulders, and while with her right hand she tried to collect it together to reassemble her bun, with her left hand she searched desperately for something on the back of the pew.

'Mrs Olsen!' said John, with even greater surprise.

'I'm looking for...' began Agnes Olsen, who had got onto her knees on the seat of the pew and reached down behind it with her left hand. Becoming aware that this action meant that her sagging breasts were exposed to the Inspector, she abandoned her hair, which flopped down again, and attempted to cover her breasts with her right arm.

'Looking for your Brasso, perhaps, Mrs Olsen?' asked John Barnaby with a smirk.

'Look here, Inspector...' began Dave Errol, who, having done up his trousers, was presentable enough to step forward towards Barnaby, 'I really think...'; but it was clear that he had no idea what to say and that he was on the point of bursting into tears.

'He's very sensitive, you know,' said an invisible Mrs Olsen, for, having found her bra, she was lying down on the bench in order to make herself respectable again. 'I was _comforting _the poor man.'

John noticed that Dave Errol was shaking like a leaf. 'What you do in your own church is none of my concern,' he said, 'but I have come to return this to you,' ― and he handed over the chalice into the hands of the trembling vicar.

'Oh, Inspector! Where did you find it?' asked Dave.

'That's a long story,' said John. 'I suppose you know that Mrs Singer was responsible for the death of your churchwarden?'

'You mean... Liz Singer... killed her own husband?' The vicar now looked astonished as well as terrified.

'The world is a wicked place,' said Agnes, who now stood up, fully clothed.

'I agree, Mrs Olsen,' said John, 'because it is full of wicked people. People are never what they seem, are they, vicar... Mrs Olsen?' and he turned from one to the other. Agnes Olsen bit her lip and Dave Errol stared at the ground.

'Inspector,' began Agnes again timidly after a moment, 'would it be too much to ask... I mean, I know that plate was hardly worth anything, but...'

'The plate that you kindly lent to me was stolen,' said Barnaby. 'How much did you pay for it, Mrs Olsen?'

Agnes gasped and put her hand to her mouth. 'Fifty pence,' she said softly.

'I imagine the vicar could reimburse you for that ― couldn't you, Mr Errol? In view of the circumstances.'

Dave Errol, who had briefly looked up, now looked down again and nodded mutely.

'Good evening to you both,' said John, who turned and walked out of the church.

Once outside John Barnaby burst into laughter. He laughed and laughed all the way to the car, becoming almost hysterical as he thought about what he had just witnessed. And as he drove home he wondered whether Midsomer, with all its outwardly respectable residents hiding dark secrets, was not perhaps a microcosm of English rural society. It was a philosophical question of the sort that John liked, and one to which he decided he would apply his capacious mind ― always provided, of course, that he was not called upon to solve any more grisly murders.

**The End**


End file.
